


A Study in Words and Numbers

by LoveAlltheSherlocks



Series: L'esprit de L'escalier [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveAlltheSherlocks/pseuds/LoveAlltheSherlocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each occurence has a time and a word, but John won't realize until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fact, 7:08 pm

“I think I love you.”

 **Fact: n. Thing that is true.**   
**_The first of April, 7:08 pm. 221b Baker Street, London._ **

John looked up from his laptop and stopped typing. His eyebrows furrowed.

“What’s that?” He asked, stretching his neck out a bit (as if that would help him hear any better).  
“I am sure that at your age your hearing skills are adequate. You heard me.”

Sherlock looked at his phone as his bare foot met the carpet with a soft plush. Truthfully, it made no noise at all. But the awkward silence in the room could make any noise audible- a pin dropping, one paper rustling, a doorknob turning. And then there was the fact that you must get used to even the quietest sounds in 221b in order not to be surprised when Sherlock entered the room. Or any room, for that matter.

John raised his finger from the keys of his laptop in order to say something but froze for a minute. He cocked his head and shook it, changing his mind. Back to typing.

Sherlock’s slender body effortlessly (and silently) glided over to the table in front of him, the crew neck of his t-shirt hanging to the side under his dressing gown He leaned over, slightly.  “Well?”

John looked up at him, face of stone. “Quit playing around, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snapped his neck back, looking offended. “You think I’m joking? I am stating a fact.”

John rolled his eyes and looked back at the screen. “Come on. You know I’m not…” he started typing again.

Sherlock glared at him. “What?”

John stopped typing again and looked up at his face. His cheeks felt hot and he let some air out between his teeth. “You know…I’m not gay.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose as he turned from the table, swinging the dressing gown with him. John glared.  
“And neither are you. What’s all this about then? Some new social experiment? I don’t know if I can take any more of them.” He watched the taller man continue into the kitchen.

Sherlock took the mug of tea John left for him and took the bag out. It had become a routine for them- John just always made it. Sherlock always took. He sipped it and walked back, past John and his laptop.

John sighed. “Seriously, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned around to face him, his expression inscrutable. “I am serious. And sexuality has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it does! You’re…asexual, or whatever. 'Married to your work'?”

“No, it does not. And I never used the term 'asexual'. And it was...there was a distinct difference then. I share an affection for you that I don’t have for anyone else, save for the obligatory care for dear Mycroft and Mother.”

John laughed, less nervous. “Oh. I understand. Well I, err, care for you too, then.” He looked back at the screen, cheeks burning again. It was unlike Sherlock to share feelings. He must have had a long night.  
Sherlock kept standing, looking at him.

John looked up, this time shutting the laptop. Obviously, no work was going to get done. “What is it?”  
Sherlock’s head tilted to the side. “I don’t think you understand what I said. That’s not what I meant.” He took another sip of the tea.

John looked confused. “Sherlock, what in the bloody- What are you even talking about? Are you feeling alright?”

Sherlock studied him for a minute, eyes darting back and forth from two unknown places on John's faces. He said nothing and turned on his heels towards his bedroom. The door latched particularly loudly. John rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and opened the laptop with another.

Sherlock didn’t leave his room all day, save for once to use the bathroom and get some more tea. When John asked if he was going to eat anything, Sherlock didn’t respond.


	2. Embarrass, 8:14 am

Lestrade sighed loudly and rested his hands on his hips, blazer opening “Sherlock, how am I supposed to even comprehend what you just said when you talk like-“

Sherlock turned around and interrupted, “You do not see; how you are even a Detective Inspector I will never know. You miss the obvious signs of foul play.”

Lestrade threw his hands up and held them out towards the body. “Then tell me so I will see!”

 **Embarrass: v. to make uncomfortable (by rudeness, indecency, etc).**

 **  
_The fifth of April, 8:14 am.  Victoria Tower Gardens, Millibank, City of London._   
**

John pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. They’d been there 45 minutes and nothing important was revealed. This was a new record. He sighed.

Eventually Sherlock spoke what was on his mind, and Lestrade took notes. John kicked the little grey pebbles beneath his feet farther away from him, one by one. Sherlock kept babbling, mostly talking to himself-and Lestrade followed him around the body, looking half-confused. Eventually it stopped. Sherlock opened his coat to pull his phone out of the inside pocket, and typed away at it.

“Obviously it was the boyfriend.”He didn’t even look up.

John’s head snapped up towards him. “How do you even-“

Sherlock let air our between his teeth and looked back at him, interrupting. “Oh, please. Her earrings! They are the most expensive set of earrings I’ve seen in a month. He couldn’t buy her a necklace, that’s too suspicious, and ring? Of course not. She doesn’t even have a watch so a bracelet wouldn’t go-so earrings. Simple earrings to wear every day that remind her of him and show everyone silently that she’s his. They’re expensive too; I’d wager he’s her boss as well. The wedding ring’s in good condition and her wallet-“he took it out of the woman’s purse beside her and handed it to Lestrade-“ has a picture of her family, husband included, so I’ll bet you 50 quid that she decided to stay with the husband unlike her original promise to leave with the boyfriend. Usually it’s the girl trying to convince the man to leave. But wealthy business man, probably not married, she would be the one to leave. And she changed her mind. So he killed her.”

Lestrade stood, legs apart, mouth gaping. “I swear, you could be making all this up and I’d never know the difference. It seems like a simple-“

Sherlock sighed and interrupted once more. “Well of course it’s simple. If John continues to see Sarah and refuse to acknowledge our relationship I might have to kill him too.” He pulls his sleeve back to glance at his watch.

Even the river’s waves seemed to stop then, as John absorbed what just came out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Wha-“

But Lestrade broke into a fit of laughter, unusual as it was; and looked at Sherlock. “Don’t say things like that, or I’ll start taking you seriously.” Sherlock stared, face unmoving, back at him until Lestrade turned and laughed still, quietly to himself, and walked to the car.

John still stared at him. Sherlock turned to see his face. “Come, this is dull.”

John could only follow. It was a silent walk home- John stared at the sidewalk, swallowing every 10 seconds, and Sherlock alternated between looking straight ahead of himself and typing away at his phone.

John decided not to bring it up until later, when he felt less…exposed.


	3. Distinguish, 8:01 am

**Distinguish: v. to tell the difference (of).**

 **_The sixth of April, 8:01 am._ **

John stepped into the flat first, yawning. Four early days in a row. He considered taking a nap to be honest. A nap sounded very good right now. But then, John remembered the morning before, at the crime scene. And what Sherlock had said. They had barely spoken all of the day before- John had surgery in the afternoon and pretty much kept to the telly for the duration of the evening, not saying anything. Sherlock always took these quiet days as opportunity to do work-an experiment, or some cold case file research. He stayed on his laptop the entire day, highlighting files and making notes. He oddly kept everything neat though; he had put everything away by the time John had returned.

John took a deep breath.

But immediately after hanging his coat, Sherlock strode ahead of John and headed upstairs. John hung his next to it, and skipped every other step to make sure Sherlock wasn’t shutting himself in his room again.

“Sherlock.” He said quietly, standing at the doorway. Sherlock unbuttoned his blazer and sat at the table, opening his laptop. The blue screen reflected his face and his eyes squinted.

John stepped forward. “Sherlock.” A little louder, this time.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed to him for a second and then back. John took it as a silent permission. Sherlock always knew when an argument was coming; he could always hear John’s silent thoughts brewing, up until he opened his mouth.

“Yesterday? What in the bloody hell-“

“Oh, shut up. I really don’t want to hear your complaints at the moment. Maybe another time. After tea? You’ll have calmed a bit.” He started typing. John keeps staring at him, until-

“I wasn’t offering to make it.”

John’s grip tightened on the back of his armchair for a split second. He let go and turned around, walking to the kettle. Sherlock typed in long, fast movements that were as fluid as any other he made.

Silence except for the clang of mugs, a spoon being picked out, and keyboard clicks. John comes into the living room with 2 mugs, setting one down beside the laptop and moving over to his chair. Sherlock glanced at it.

“Thank you.”

John took a sip. Damn, burned tongue.

The typing stopped. John held the mug up to his face, waiting.

30 seconds, then Sherlock was sitting on the couch- laptop sitting in his legs, mug on the side table. He glances to John, who looks down to the mug in his hands. “Better?”

John looks at him, glaring. “Shut up.” Sherlock looks at the screen, typing again. John sets the mug down. It’s still too hot anyway. “Sherlock, that was embarrassing.”

He looks up from the screen, and huffs. “Me mentioning our relationship is embarrassing.”

John’s eyebrows raise. “Relationship? What-“ But Sherlock doesn’t even wait. “Yes, relationship. You know, relations between two people. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

John can’t think straight. “We aren’t in a relationship though. There’s a difference.” Sherlock huffs again. “Then what are we?”

John shook his head. “We’re flatmates. Colleagues.” His finger picked at the chair, small fuzzes underneath his nails. Sherlock kept his eyes on him.

“Friends?” His eyes were unmoving, and John felt the stare burning a hole into his skin.

John looks up at him. “Yes, we’re friends.” But Sherlock’s slight frustration won’t leave his expression. “But you didn’t say that.”

This was all getting very weird, John realized. He cleared his throat. “It-it must have slipped my mind,” he picked the mug back up to hold onto something. “I didn’t know that’s what-“

Sherlock shuts the laptop. Rather, slams it. “How does one let something like that _slip their mind_? Of course that’s what I meant. We are friends or we are not.” He drummed his fingers in the laptop.

John tosses his hand out, nearly spilling the tea. He sets the mug down, yet again. So much for calming down. “Well, I’m sorry. You’re being very…weird! Now stop it. You’re freaking me out. Today, and the other day…” John take a breath. “What is up with you?”

Sherlock directs his attention away from John, and to the laptop again. He opens it, then ponders something for a moment. The laptop shuts. He looks frustrated. John watches, waiting. But he already knows an answer won’t come. Sherlock stand, lightly dropping the laptop on to sofa where he sat, and strode into the hall.

John sat up, looking to see what he was doing. It only took a few seconds to recognize the sounds; arms being slipped into coat sleeves, scarf wrapping around his neck. He was going out.

John moved again in the chair. “Where are you going?”

Sherlock came back into the room, looking at his phone in his hands. “Mmm? Oh. Out.” He walked past the chair where John sat, to the file cabinet by the desk. He opened one drawer, then another, and retrieved a manila folder. He walked past again, back to the door. “You’re fine for dinner, then? Or shall I bring takeaway home?”

John looked at the envelope in Sherlock’s hand. “What is that?” Sherlock hesitated.

“…Just a case log. I made the promise to return it…over a year ago, I believe. Best if I do that now.” He looks down at the folder and rubs his thumb along the edge. “Takeaway then. Chinese?” He starts to turn.

“Oh. Will you see Lestrade then? Get another case? You’ve been bored.” He picks the mug up. Too cold now. He sighs and gets up. Sherlock stops moving, back to John.

“Not Lestrade. I’ll be back fairly soon though.” Sherlock put his phone into his pocket. “Chinese, I’ll bring it back.” He heads out, door slamming behind him. John goes to warm the tea.

Around eight (approximately five hours after Sherlock’s departure, John suddenly realizes how long it’s been. Not to mention the fact that he is incredibly hungry. He pushes himself from the chair to search for something edible. An irritating task in the least.

After finding biscuits and some gravy he can warm up in the saucepan, John grabs his phone and texts Sherlock.

 **Are you coming home tonight?**

He waits a few minutes before trying again.

 **Don’t worry about dinner, then, I’ll fend for myself.**

Still no response, but that was expected either way. John set the phone on the table and prepared his food, bringing it to the couch. It was one of those nights, one of the nights where you just wanted to eat in front of the telly and relax. He had an early morning at the clinic ahead, so food, telly, and sleep (in that order) seemed just perfect.

John woke up, head hanging in front of him. Some loud advert; One where the ladies speak extremely too loud for selling handbags and jewelry at nearly midnight and later. John rubs his eyes and looks around. No sign that Sherlock’s been home yet. There’s an eerie quietness in the flat. John cleans up his things and turns the television off, before slowly making his way to the bedroom. It seems to be seconds after collapsing in his bed that he is deep in sleep.

Until **4:12 am**


	4. Doubt and Heal, 4:10 am

**Doubt: A feeling of uncertainty, or lack of conviction.**

**_The seventh of April, 4:10 am. 221b Baker Street, London._ **

Sherlock had every foreseeable intention of returning to 221b at a reasonable time that evening. Surely he would have to explain to John; give him a small lie for placation. But at that moment, he shut the front door behind him and let himself forget about that. His body involuntarily leaned against the back of the door. He took a deep breath, and let the pain set in.

The first layer of Sherlock’s skin was, no doubt, damaged beyond a simple burn cream remedy for his right hand, opposite leg and part of his face, swirling into his jaw line and neck. His finger traced underneath an eye, surveying the once-smooth porcelain skin that now undeniably resembles craters of the moon, oil-like liquid remaining on his finger.

He felt as if his skin were on fire. Well, it was, for a second. A minute. A minute and forty seven seconds, to be exact. But he still felt the burn; still felt the top layer of his skin desquamating much like sunburn-which Sherlock has experienced before, too. But this was worse. So much worse. And visible. Undoubtedly visible. He propelled himself slowly from the door and moved towards the hall.

His legs refused to pick themselves up the way he required them to-his feet shuffled against the carpet of the living area, and he let his coat slip onto the floor behind him. Toeing off his shoes, Sherlock looks down. He immediately wished he wore jeans more often. They might have held the flame better, might have not burned through as quickly as the now holey dress slacks did. He could feel part of the pant leg attached to his skin, as if he had taken a needle and sewed it there himself. His right ankle looked the way his face felt. His right arm, too…and he didn’t dare look at the damage his coat might have endured. He turned to head into the kitchen, and hit John’s tea mug right off the table. It made a clear sound in the silence, even as he leaned to catch it. _Shut up,_ he thought to himself. He set the mug back down.

Blazer off (that would have to be replaced), shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. Swift movements now being slowed down by pain and stiffness- and the chance John might hear. He’d see Sherlock’s burns, after his surgery. But at least Sherlock would wear pants that weren’t ripped and stuck to his skin-he could wear his pajama bottoms and dressing gown to cover his wrist. Nothing would require him to go out much- for a few days, at least. He’d feel no desire to, in his state. At least until his face heals. He could hide this solitary thing from Mycroft until then.

No. No, he couldn’t. That was a stupid thought. Sherlock mentally chided himself for letting the thought slip in, and threw it away. The news of the building would set his “governmental” alarm off at the very least, and soon Mycroft would be at the door, with questions. Sherlock deleted that thought too; He didn’t need to waste time focusing on a possibly problematic (and unwanted) visit from Mycroft.

If Sherlock moved just quickly enough, he’d chance that he had fifteen minutes before John might be able to notice his presence at home, twenty if he was quiet in addition. But the water on his skin felt good, so _cool_ , it almost seemed to negate any effect the fire had; and Sherlock hated to pull his arm away. He flexed his right leg a bit, hissing at the pain it caused instantly. He leaned his head on the counter, arm propped up beside it, under the stream of water. He didn’t think of the time passing.

Then Sherlock let another thought slip in, uninvited. He refused to pay attention to it, but it nagged at the back of his mind. It pushed its way through, and Sherlock sighed.

Why did he think this would work?

“I did it for you,” he breathed. And that statement alone made him feel a little less pain. Sherlock glanced at the watch on his left wrist, the undamaged one.

**4:20 am.**

He heard something, and didn’t dare move. John was standing at the bottom stair- no, Sherlock though-he was on the floor now, bare feet against wood.

“Did what?”

***

**Heal: v. to patch up.**

**_The seventh of April, 4:10 am. 221b Baker Street, London._ **

John’s eyes fluttered when the front door of 221b shut; He told himself it was a dream.

Then, something glass toppling; just his imagination. He closed his eyes, and an eternity passed.

But his eyes opened at the sound of running water, and he sat up quickly, looking at the clock. He slipped his house shoes on and padded over to the doorway, then down the stairs quietly. He was half asleep-the running faucet sounded so much louder than it should, and Sherlock made a sound before mumbling something John wasn’t exactly sure he heard right.

“I did it for you.”

John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and rubbed his eyes. “Did what?” he croaked, turning to shuffle into the kitchen. Sherlock’s coat was on the floor-what? His blazer, too, and Sherlock was leaning into the counter as if it was the only thing holding him up.

***

Sherlock straightened himself up immediately, turning the faucet off and pushing his sleeve back over his wrist. He buttoned his shirt to the second button, pulling his collar up. He took a deep breath in; he smelled tea and shaving cream, jumpers and _John._ Sherlock composed himself and held his head up.

“Did what?” He repeated, confused-like. John shifted behind him. Sherlock could feel his eyes, noticing things. He turned and kept his left profile to John- he hadn’t even seen himself yet, no count for how he looked yet. It could have been dark enough to be unnoticeable but he wasn’t sure. He glanced to John, who cleared his throat and spoke, fully awake now.

“You said it, not me. What were you doing?” Sherlock stepped slowly (mostly due to the pain) to the far end of the long side of the table.

“I believe you’re hearing things, John. You should go back to sleep.” His fingernail scratched at the table’s edge. John slowly stepped in the same path he did, but Sherlock moved a little more quickly around  the other side of the table to leave the kitchen. “In fact, I think I’ll sleep too. Good-“ But John interrupted.

“It smells like you’ve burnt something in here. Did you make toast or something?” He looked at the counter and then to Sherlock. Sherlock turned his head just a little more away, just in case. The moonlight could be bright enough.

“I’ve never had a proclivity for cooking, as you know.” This wasn’t entirely true (Sherlock quite liked cooking, but it wasted time), but that was irrelevant. Sherlock took another step. “I apologize about dinner.” John moved closer to him, and he spoke quieter this time.

“Sherlock, what happened?” His hand leaned on the table, sliding toward Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock’s shoulders dropped just a bit before he took a deep breath.

“Unexpected case came up. Couldn’t text; No service.” Again, not entirely true. He threw in a few vague details to harden his shell of lies. “It was…irritating, honestly. An offer I couldn’t refuse, though.”

John sniffed. “Gasoline, that’s the other thing. Where the hell were you?” He moved closer, again, and Sherlock felt tense. He wasn’t used to all of these questions, the interrogation. Coming back to the Montague apartment was so different from coming home to Baker Street. He needed explanations just to get into the front door and into bed here, an answer for every injury and a response to every location inquiry. It was bittersweet, coming home to John. It was a perfect blend of feeling irritated and cared for.

“I’m sure you’ll hear soon enough,” he started, thinking of Mycroft, but John took that the wrong way. He headed to the television box and turned it on. Sherlock used this opportunity to keep walking towards the stairs, but John switched to the early morning news (impeccably timed, of course), and Sherlock heard something about a fire. He rolled his eyes. There went the logic of keeping it quiet. The newscasters were annoyingly quick-moving.

“No bodies have been found in the abandoned building, but police aren’t sure whether this fire was for arsenic reasons. But it did start _inside,_ and spread fairly quickly before the fire department even reached it.” The words stopped as John turned the television off. He turned to Sherlock.

“You burned down a building.” It wasn’t a question, but Sherlock felt the need to answer.

“No, that was…” Sherlock was going to say the client, for lack of a better response, but his lungs felt full and he coughed. John automatically went for a glass of water, mumbling something about smoke. Sherlock felt a small pang of panic; John will want to hand the glass to him. Which could only mean-

But his thoughts weren’t fast enough (was that because of the burns? Did those have affect of brainwork? Or maybe it was John, John’s presence and John’s breathing and John’s voice), because suddenly John was already in front of him. Sherlock’s head was down, and all he could see was the glass of water he held out to him, and the brown slippers John wore, underneath the edge of his sleep pants.

“Do I even want to know?” John asked, stretching his arm out an inch further. Sherlock swallowed. He honestly could answer _no_ to that one. If John knew it would be ruined before it even started. That last thought didn’t even make sense in Sherlock’s head. Maybe it was the shock. He was still recovering. Running for your life out of a fiery cage probably would do that to you; temporarily suspend quick thinking. It was hugely irritating.

And apparently it made you forget things, because for a split second Sherlock forgot was he was trying to hide and picked his head up, involuntarily using his dominant (and very badly burned) right hand to grab the water. John took a sharp breath inward at seeing his face, reminding Sherlock too late.

John set the glass down and reached his hand up to Sherlock’s face, making Sherlock’s pulse pick up. His fingers were just a millimeter away from his burn-and it almost hurt, but Sherlock didn’t dare move. He looked into John’s eyes, and then to the worry creasing in his forehead.

**Heal: v. to make sound or whole.**

There was a moment of silence, all quiet but for the pounding in Sherlock’s ears. Even his mind was quiet, anticipating and wanting and _not_ wanting the touch of Jon’s hand on his own face. He tensed his jaw.

“How-“John stammered, shaking his head slightly, “How did you-?” he fingered the edge of Sherlock’s collar, pulling it aside. Were there burns there too? Sherlock felt nothing there-perhaps it was numb. He wasn’t exactly sure what he could feel anymore. Sherlock took a step back and swallowed.

“Obviously it wasn’t me that did it, I told you.” He started to roll his sleeve down to cover his wrist. “If that were the case, surely I wouldn’t be injured. That would be quite the representation of my arsonous skills.” But John only stepped forward, edging closer to Sherlock.

“I want to see. I need to make sure-“

“You’ve seen enough.” Sherlock was getting irritated now-he _wanted_ John to see, he wanted John to _help._ No, he didn’t he didn’t need help. He sighed and stepped past John quickly, to move into the bedroom and shut the door. But John followed, two steps behind him. This was probably due to the fact that Sherlock couldn’t help but limp slightly, because of the burn on his leg.

“Sherlock.” John now had a firm tone, and it stopped Sherlock in his tracks, wanted or not. God _dammit,_ the words sliced through his mind. He rolled his eyes.

“John, as lovely as it would be to have a nice little chat over tea, I think some sleep is in order, for the both of-.” But he felt John’s hand on his left arm, and that was all he knew. John gently guided him backwards, and Sherlock was floating along the floor. The couch’s cushions felt a dream, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize he’d been had. John was rolling his sleeve up again, turning his wrist over.

Sherlock huffed. “This is getting-“ He started to move against John, trying to stand. But John pushed his chest back with one hand, holding the wrist with the other.

“If you were going to say ridiculous, then you’re right, Sherlock. This is getting ridiculous, bloody ridiculous. You don’t even text and come home at the ungodly hour of 4 am, only to try to refuse my medical help. You could have been in bed by now, had you let me take care of this.” And Sherlock had nothing to say after that, because John made sense, _of course_ John made sense. He sat back, looking at the ceiling. 

John looked down. “You leg?” Sherlock didn’t even glance. “Mmm.” His leg throbbed underneath the trousers, but then again the trousers felt almost a part of him now, connected by gas and flame.

“I’ll have to cut it.” Sherlock could feel John picking at the hem of the pants, trying to find a way to fix the burn otherwise. Sherlock said nothing, he wasn’t even sure he heard.

But then John was cutting his trousers and he felt the cool blade of scissors lightly touching his skin, cold air rushing into the new opening. He leaned his head up to see. John lifted his leg gingerly and tugged the pant leg aside (without pulling the skin, of course), cutting a jagged line around it just above the knee. Sherlock’s leg stood out bright against the dark night. He took a breath.

John worked at where the pant leg was attached to the burn next, resting Sherlock’s foot upon a box so he could reach easily. He snipped and wiped along the burn carefully, making Sherlock bite his lip. After a few moments most of the pant leg was separate from his actual leg, except for a few bits at the worst burns. John sighed and walked into the bathroom for a minute, returning with a first-aid kit. Sherlock sat up, swallowing. He felt uneasy now, not sure what to say or what to do. He pulled out the medical scissors and bandages. Then, glancing around, he realizes the lighting situation. He steps over and flips the main light switch, turning back to Sherlock.

He stopped.

Sherlock’s heart pounded harder, if it could even do that. Why was John…was he _staring?_ Why?

The burn on his face panged again, and he started to get up. John rushed to stop him.

“Your leg, don’t.” He pushed him back again, taking his leg and resting it back on the box.

Sherlock glared. “I want to see.” But John shook his head. “Not until I’m done. It’s not that bad.”

Sherlock breathed in, shoulders rising. John’s voice said the exact opposite. It was _that bad._ He’s such a horrible liar. “I want to _see,_ John.” His right hand gripped the sofa cushion underneath him, and he ignored the pain it caused. John looked up from the kit, into Sherlock’s eyes.

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock.” John knew of Sherlock’s hidden vanity, the reason for the suits and the expensive coat. He could probably make the burns better in a few days. Hell, they’d look better in two minutes if he could work on them.

But Sherlock wanted to see himself. It was one thing being burned; it was another to being the only one in the world who can’t see how you are _seen_ to the world.It was always like that-a downside to being as clever as he was. He saw the world differently, alone. The world saw him differently, together. He just wanted to see, too.

“John!” Sherlock hissed quietly, even though there was no one else to accidentally wake in earshot. He was frustrated now, and the demand sounded like one of a child. John sighed and left, returning with a compact mirror in hand. “Don’t ask where I-“

“Sarah left it.” Sherlock snatched it from John’s hand and opened it with his left hand. John clicked the table lamp on beside Sherlock, and kneeled in front of him, sighing.

It really wasn’t that bad, Sherlock had to tell himself. It wasn’t bad in the way that it would take long to recover. But the burns against a smooth, pale skin like Sherlock’s stood out. He seemed to have a frame for his eye (he was lucky his eyebrow wasn’t singed), and there was a trail of white blisters cradling it. There was a second line of them, near his ear and into his jaw line. Past that, it looked like a splash of red, one finger of it nearly reaching his Adam’s apple. The first layer of his skin there looked melted in a way, and then pushed toward the edges of the burn. That was almost identical to his wrist. His face looked more like his ankle, bubbles of liquid surfacing.

Take that back, it was bad. Sherlock kept looking into the mirror long after John started to work on his ankle, removing the remaining fabric from the burns and putting cream on. He looked up.

“Second degree, all of them. Superficial, mostly. Except…” He looked at Sherlock’s wrist and up to his neck. “Your face got the least of it. Moving your head and neck will bother you though.”

Sherlock angled his head to look more at the burns of his neck. “How long?”

John unwrapped some gauze from the roll. “Few weeks?”

Weeks…Sherlock didn’t have that much time.

“Hard to tell. I have to…take the extra skin off the worst parts first.” He wrapped the gauze gently, fingers barely touching the burns. Sherlock picked at the curled skin of his neck lightly, repositioning the mirror.

“Stop that-“ John took the mirror out of his hand. “I’m the doctor, not you.” But Sherlock only rolled his eyes in reply.

“I’ve been burned before. I’ve had worse. I so remember one night in particular, I was testing the theory that the skin on your wrist was much more likely-“

“How did you get on, before me?” John shook his head and pulled Sherlock’s hand to him. Sherlock stopped and looked down at it.

“Not entirely sure, to be honest.” He spoke quietly, and looked up at John, who smiled and cut nearly an inch of skin from Sherlock’s wrist. “I am the ideogram of danger.”

“It’s a miracle you’re even alive, at this rate. This ‘case’ better be worth it.”

Sherlock thought of the cabbie just then, and the gunshot. **“ _He wasn’t a very nice man.”_**

**_“No, he wasn’t.”_ **

“It is.” Sherlock looked at John- he was peering over his hand, tweezers pulling at his skin.

“It better help pay the rent, too. Mrs. Hudson’s’ asked again.”

 **_“And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”_ ** ****

Sherlock breathed out a small smile and leaned his head back. “She’ll be fine.”

John’s smile grew wide. “You should have seen her, though. We’ll be rightly kicked out soon.”

“Hmm, a homeless consulting detective and his blogging doctor at his side. The adventures we’d have.”

“We have enough adventures. I just want a place to sleep.”

“Sidewalk’s not all that bad.”

“A bed’s more my taste, believe it or not.” John laughed and added cream to Sherlock’s wrist, rubbing it in gently. Sherlock’s breath catches, and John looks at him, worried.

“…Cream’s cold.” Sherlock looked away. John moved to grab the gauze again.

“I suppose I’ll have to do your texting for you now, for a while.”

Sherlock smirks. “Not too different from before.”

“Guess not.”

And now John was moving closer to Sherlock, switching to the other side of his legs and scooting close to his face. Sherlock refused to face him until told. This was, in all honesty, confusing to Sherlock. He wasn’t thinking straight.

It was the shock; that was it.

The shock.

John’s face was inches away from Sherlock’s, hand even closer, and Sherlock couldn’t help but turn to face him. John’s index finger lightly pushed Sherlock’s forehead to turn it again, away.

“Can’t see if you move, Sherlock.” Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes, thinking of strings and tea, stripes and colors.

It felt n hour, it felt a day, before John spoke again.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Breath bated, Sherlock’s eyes opened.

“That is inevitable.”


	5. Allude, 8:05 am

**Allude. v. to make an indirect reference.**

**_The eighth of April, 8:05 am. Baker Street, London._ **

Sherlock was put to bed in the early morning, bandaged and sedated with a few ibuprofen and milk. He didn’t put up too much of a fight, surprisingly. John noticed when Sherlock became quiet and thought he was probably exhausted. He didn’t say anything as John applied cream to the worst of the burns, and led him to his room. He didn’t say anything when John brought in the glass of milk and the three pills, and set it on the night stand. He didn’t even say anything as John helped him undress, pulling a t-shirt and flannel pants and helping him get into them (careful not to touch the burns through the gauze). John pulled back Sherlock’s blanket and shut the curtains(the sun was high in the sky now) while Sherlock drank most of the milk and took the pills silently. He climbed into the be, flattening his curls into the pillow, blinking tiredly.

John looked into his eyes, wanting to find something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but Sherlock as acting…strange. Not that he didn’t anyway. But the air of the room felt heavy around them, and John couldn’t help but notice it. He kneeled down to Sherlock’s eye level.

“Do you need me to-“

But Sherlock’s glare was enough to answer that question. John felt a little better, seeing that glare.

“Alright, I’ll just leave the doors open a little. Call for me if you need anything. Or text, whatever.” He stood and grabbed the glass of remaining milk to take it out. He left the door open enough so the light from behind the curtains shone to the hallway, and met the light from John’s own room.

John called Sarah and told her he couldn’t come in to the clinic. He only said that Sherlock was injured, and if John didn’t stay at home, he was likely to go out and hurt himself more. Sarah was nice about it, but as always, John felt terrible. He promised to make it up to her. But he wasn’t sure if he promised to make it up to the clinic, or Sarah.

He woke up when his phone buzzed. He scrambled for it, sleepy and awake all at the same time. There was one new text.

**Sorry. SH**

John blinked a few times, not understanding.

**Sorry for what?**

He dozed until another buzz woke him.

**Clinic. SH**

John understood then. He smiled a little. Leave it to Sherlock to actually feel bad for accidentally getting burned.

**It’s fine. You’re my top-priority patient anyway.**

The buzz came 5 seconds later.

**I love doctors and hate their medicine. SH**

John read it three times. What-

**Walt Whitman. SH**

Oh. A quote.

 **Medicine can be good for you, you know. Sleep too.** John’s eyelids felt less heavy, but he could easily sleep again if he tried soon. He watched the bright screen of his phone, yawning. It took a few minutes, but the buzz came.

**Dull. SH**

John took a deep breath.

**You’ll feel better if you sleep.**

But no response came for that. John slid out of bed and creeped to the Sherlock’s door, peering in. Sherlock was breathing deeply, eyes fluttering a little. John went back into his own bed. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Now he was awake.


	6. Identify, 11:09 am

**Identify: v. to recognize, label**

 **_The eleventh of April, 11:09 am Baker Street, London_ **

The flat was a mess. This was a usual occurrence; Papers on every table and even the floor, Sherlock’s old mugs everywhere, and books-good god, the books- lying all around. One time, John found _A Dictionary to Forensic Science_ by Suzanne Bell in between the couch cushions, where he went to sit.

But this week, it was considerably worse (if it could be). And it wasn’t all Sherlock, either. John was at home most days now, making sure Sherlock didn’t remove his bandages or do any experiments that would only worsen his condition. He tried both on a daily basis, naturally. Because _for science, John_ or because _I’m so bored, John_ or even because _I just felt like it, John._ Sherlock had a way of explaining himself like no other- He could give you the silliest, most childish excuse for leaving a dead owl in the oven and you would just take it and move on, because there was no other way to respond to that. John was used to this, after the first year.

How could it have been a year already?

As a result of John being home nearly all the time over the last few days his things were being left around the flat too. The fourth day, he didn’t even change out of his bedclothes. He left his mug out too, despite his usual need for washing it straight away for use the next day. Instead, he just grabbed a new mug. There were now six, somewhere within the flat. His laptop was under a pile of papers on the table, unseen. Besides the first aid kit (of which some contents were in various places, too), the remote for the telly was the only constant thing in use.

Then, it was the morning of the fourth day. John woke up and headed to the kitchen, where there was toast burning. Sherlock mostly burned the toast, for an unknown reason-he always set it too high, then complained about it being burnt, and threw it out if John didn’t eat it. But as John passed the living room he noticed Sherlock was dozing. John was happy for that- Sherlock hadn’t been sleeping very well since the seventh- not that he slept particularly well before. But now, John was getting up at least once a night to either give Sherlock more cream for his neck burn or helping him wake up from what must be a very vivid dream. Sherlock would trash about for a few minutes, making unintelligible noises, and wouldn’t stop until he was woken up. John never geared the nerve to ask him what he dreamt-Sherlock would wake, wide-eyed, and look at John with a sort of sadness, blink, and turn back over. John didn’t know what to do but leave.

So instead of telling Sherlock to get his toast to he rushed to turn the toaster off himself. He tripped over Sherlock’s scale on the way, stubbing his toe. “Damn!”

Sherlock woke with a jump, and rushed ahead of John to the toaster, fully awake. The bread was nearly black on one side. John rubbed his foot and grabbed yesterday’s mug from the dining table beside him. He grumbled and rinsed it out in the sink. Sherlock nibbled at the corner of his toast and looked at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

There were only two ways for John to respond to this. The first was to shrug it off kindly. _No problem._ This was John’s first reaction to everyone, pretty much. But with Sherlock it was different. When you spend nearly every day and every night with a person the pet peeves you might have normally pushed aside for someone resurface, and thus was the case with John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes did what he pleased or didn’t do what he didn’t think about- which was nearly everything, considering the fact that his brain was filled with _important_ things and _cases_ and (sometimes, John thought) the long list of things to personally _annoy_ John Watson, Army Doctor. Stack this on top of the sleepless nights for cases and being forced at the last minute to do ridiculous things like search books for translations or attend galas in costume and one might get very…bitter.

John was bitter a lot, lately. And the past four days sure haven’t helped. Sherlock was like a child, never thinking of why a book in the couch cushions might irritate someone, or why on _earth_ would you leave your chemicals in the fridge, where someone might pour a glass and drink it if you hadn’t grabbed it from your hands?

And at first, Sherlock tossed these things aside the way a child would, moving on to more interesting things. But lately, it was different. The roles in the house were flipped, in a way. John would be irritated much more easily, and for a longer period of time, while Sherlock apologized (only one word, ‘sorry’) for _every single thing_ and spoke in kind words to John. In addition to that, he made the tea. John didn’t think too much of it, to be honest. You’d think he’d noticed when Sherlock apologized and was grateful. Or a little less angry, at least.

But it was immediately after Sherlock apologized this morning that John naturally, without thinking, took to the second option of reactions.

“Sherlock, you shouldn’t even make toast if you aren’t going to eat it! Or at least put it on the first damn setting so it doesn’t catch fire. And really, you haven’t even used the scale. I mean, seriously.” It wasn’t a yell, or even a scolding. It was a fact, but melded with a harsh tone it filled the kitchen with a different mood. Sherlock set the toast down on the counter, looking at it. No emotion.

John sighed. “I’m cleaning up today. I need laundry done, so where’s your clothes?”

“Bedroom.”

John put a teabag in his mug and took it to the laundry closet.

John had taken to doing Sherlock’s laundry to save money, not because he wanted to. Sherlock dry-cleaned everything he owned, which made paying the rent certain months very difficult. It was after a few months that John stupidly asked him why he couldn’t do his own wash. Sherlock gave him a look he will never forget, and said the simplest thing.

“I don’t want to.”

Eventually Sherlock explained that he liked his clothes to look freshly pressed, all the time. He never re-wore anything, either. John didn’t come from money, and thought that was ridiculous. So he asked Sherlock for a bargain.

“If I do your laundry once, and it meets your expectations, will you let me do it? We can save the money for times we’re behind in the rent.”

Sherlock thought this was pointless but said _fine._ And after John did the wash and ironed all of Sherlock’s shirts and found a way to de-wrinkle his pants easily (getting up an hour earlier to do so) Sherlock said if that’s what he wanted to do, he could live with a few wrinkles (because, of course, it wasn’t as good). John was now the launderer off 221B.

John stepped into Sherlock’s room and rolled his eyes. Everything was in its proper place. One the floor, on the desk, strewn over the bed, on the window sill. John leaned out of the bedroom door.

“How the _hell_ am I supposed know what to wash?”

No reply.

John picked up what clothes he could, piling it all in the hall with his own jumpers and jeans. He got to work, mumbling all of the while, and occasionally raising his voice to make a point.

“Should have known we’d be almost out of detergent.”

It was a very bad mood for John. Every once in a while got into a bad mood for a day or two. But this was particularly odd. And Sherlock saying nothing only got more of a rise out of him.

Eventually he was waiting on the last load (and the living room was nearly cleaned up, too) when he started on dinner, microwaving Chinese noodles from who knows how long ago. He reached for a bowl, realizing there weren’t any clean. He’d used them all for soup and cereal. He groaned and walked into the living room.

“Sherlock, there aren’t any clean bowls left.”

Sherlock looked up from the paper and quirked a brow.

“God forbid you never wash the dishes, but you could have at least told me they needed cleaning.” He turned in one beat to find some paper plates, or something. But Sherlock’s voice spoke point-blank, straight into John’s inner rage.

“You know, John, for being such a good-natured and kind man, you really _are_ nasty to me at times.”

He looked to the clock on the wall. John stopped and turned, invisible steel wires anchoring him where he was. He felt as though he might get sick, right there and then. Sherlock _never_ spoke that way to John. He gave him facts in a condescending manner, and called him an idiot sometimes, but never anything like that. Never a personal attack on his personality, or whatever it was an attack on. And he’s never used that tone before. John didn’t even know what kind of tone it was. It felt harsh, but Sherlock said it so casually it could have been a joke.

But Sherlock didn’t joke very often. Only when he was in a very good mood, or a sad one. He sometimes joked as a cover for how he felt- like the one day he poked fun at Mycroft when it was pointed out that it was a very good thing Sherlock didn’t date, because it’d be very hard for him to keep someone, or to even be kept.

 _“Well, Mycroft, we all know why you don’t date. You’d much rather indulge yourself in a few pies rather than a woman.”_

John nearly spit out his tea-he did, actually, a little. Sherlock smirked and Mycroft sighed.

“Jest all you want, Sherlock, but you know what I said was true.” Sherlock said nothing, looking at him with an indescribable expression.The same one he wore now. It made John feel heavy, breaths shortened. There was something else too, a feeling he only felt after a patient’s death in the hospital, after a comrade’s in Afghanistan.

He felt guilty.

He looked at Sherlock, jaw tense, thinking of what to say. But Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him. He was still looking at the paper, folded over in his hands. His eyes scanned the typed lines slowly. John studied the burn on Sherlock’s face-it had improved, but not much. The bandage on his wrist made Sherlock hold his hand stiffly, unlike the delicate composure his hands usually had. John shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. Sherlock spoke instead.

“And if I am correct, which is almost all of the time, I am sure you’ve noticed my demeanor in the household has changed. So while I may be irritating by making more of a mess than usual or plucking on any last nerve you may have, surely you are aware that I am actually apologizing for said plucked nerves and said messes, and have been-in general- more pleasant than usual. This makes your…attitude towards me as of late a little uncalled for, I’d say.”

Well, there it was. John stopped breathing for a moment. The air felt stuffy.

Sherlock then stood and folded his paper in half, making his way to the kitchen past John. John stayed where he was as he grabbed a tea mug and poured water in, and grabbed a bag for it. He walked past John again and went back to the couch, picking up his laptop with his (almost) free hand. John cleared his throat, waiting for something, anything to be said.

Sherlock turned and almost bounced on his good leg, looking at John.

“Food for thought.”

He walked out of the room and into his own, shutting the door and leaving John to his own thoughts. Or lack thereof.

John sat down in his chair, eyes wide. He felt…

He felt terrible. Anything to actually get a genuine remark from Sherlock Holmes must be bad. A bit not good, at the very least. John never thought _he’d_ be one to get a remark like that from Sherlock.

But Sherlock was right. John really was out of sorts, and lashing out at Sherlock lately wasn’t the way to go about it.

He was also right about his “demeanor”. He _had_ been pleasant lately. He’s made tea 7 times now, without being asked or pushed to do it. He thanks John for the soup and the bread and the leftovers he’s made him, he’s had a few laughs with him. And this is only since he’s been burned. John felt even guiltier, remembering all this. This isn’t how he should be treating his flat mate, burned and stuck inside with nothing to do. And surely, this is not how he should be treating his friend. His best friend, in fact.

John waited a little before going back to his cleaning, thinking of the ways to apologize to Sherlock. He decided he’d pick up dinner at Angelo’s and bring it back. Sherlock hasn’t had any pasta lately (he was looking even thinner than usual) and this way, he won’t have to explain to Angelo about the splash of red on his face. John returned to the flat to see Sherlock sitting in his own chair, typing away at the laptop. Sherlock slammed it as soon as John walked in, and tucked it away under the chair. He stood to grab a bag.

“I say, John. You know we won’t eat all of this.” He peered into one of the bags, sniffing.

“I know. But this way we don’t have to leave for lunch tomorrow. I got milk, too.” He pulled containers out of the bags, setting them on the table. After opening the cupboard he realized the dishes in the sink had been washed, set neatly on the drying rack.

“You didn’t have to-“

“I know.”

John looked down at the plates, studying the water droplets.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock reach over John, grabbing two of the plates with his good hand. “No matter. You would have realized on your own, later.”

John paused and looked at him for a moment. He felt something underneath that statement, creeping out. But he shook his head and opened the first container he saw.

“Breadsticks?”


	7. Apology, 8:25 am

**Apology: n. a regretful acknowledgment of an offense or failure.**

 **_The twelfth of April, 8:25 am, Baker Street, London_ **

****

John woke up to a quiet sound coming from across the hall.

He had been a very light sleeper lately, because of Sherlock. Just 2 nights ago, all he heard was Sherlock make a muffled moan into his pillow and he jumped out of bed. Sherlock had pressed his face full-on into the pillow, quieting any sounds he made and words he spoke. John couldn’t tell which he was doing. He leaned over and lightly turned Sherlock’s shoulder to see his face. His eyes were closed tight and cheeks red, making John’s hand fly up to this forehead to check for fever. But no, he felt normal. A dream, then. But Sherlock sat up, fully awake, with a pen in his hand. A pen?

“What?” Sherlock’s irritation crept through the question slowly.

John was confused. “I thought-“

“It was nothing. Go back to sleep.” Sherlock lied on his back, tossed the pen on the night table, and folded his hands. John waited for a minute and left the room. He closed his door all but to latch it, and got back into his own bed.

Sherlock hit the headboard of his bed with his good hand.

***

John blinked his eyes and looked at the clock. 7:08. It wasn’t as late as he had originally wanted to sleep in, but he sat up either way. Rubbed his eyes, slipped on his house shoes, and headed to the kitchen. The Kettle was already hot. And two spoons on the counter. Two? But the kettle wasn’t hot. What-

The coffee pot. He had made coffee. He didn’t usually drink coffee, but if Sherlock was on a case or couldn’t sleep, coffee forced him to stay awake for just a bit longer. Or jump-started his brain for thought.

It still didn’t explain the two spoons, though.

Or the woman’s coat lying over the arm of John’s chair.

A new client? Sherlock wouldn’t have done that so soon, especially with his burns. Sad enough to say Sherlock Holmes was the tiniest bit vain, but even sadder to say he’d pause his work because of his vanity. And he shut down the blog since that night, a silent message to all informing them he wasn’t taking any cases. John asked why didn’t he just leave it up and say he could do small things, from the laptop. To keep his mind moving?

But Sherlock shook his head, with too much emotion trapped in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t matter. Not worth the time, in the end.” And then he would ask John what his plans for the day were, and if he wanted tea. It was unsettling.

The whole flat was unsettling, as it were. There was an air of urgency and stillness, blended in a way making John feel a need to address it. But there was also an air of…nothing. Nothing happened in this last week. John didn’t leave the flat except for food, Sherlock lied around the house and looked at papers, scribbling and typing away at the laptop.

And they had conversations. Ones about Sherlock’s addiction and John’s sister; Sherlock’s brother and John’s military days. They talked about everything, they talked about nothing. They were always short, but were full. Sherlock would even initiate one. In fact, he initiated most of them. In the most casual way, he’d ask what John wanted to learn from life or what he would do with one day to live. These questions set John off, a tiny alarm in the back of his mind ringing. But he never questioned. It would only make Sherlock shut down, and he’d never bring it up again.

John made a cup of coffee for himself and looked at the woman’s coat again, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. What in _Bloody Hell_. Even if a new client was here, she’d (she’d!) be in the living room. She was probably young-the coat was very stylish and had silver buttons. And6John walked toward the hall, only to be stopped by the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door opening. John stood at the doorway, and he could not hide the surprise at what he saw next.

Sherlock’s arm was shown through the angled opening of the door as he opened it. A young woman walked out in front of him. Dirty blonde hair pulled up in a slightly messy bun, a few strands framing her face. She had s skirt suit on, black with a pale purple dressy blouse underneath the blazer. She had no shoes on.

She was pretty. Prettier than Sarah, and Molly. She had plump lips and thick eyelashes framing ocean blue eyes like John’s. She stood straight when she walked. John leaned back a little more into the living room and pretended to sip his coffee and not notice her. Sherlock, in his pajamas and dressing gown, guided the woman by the small of her back with his hand aa they passed John into the room. The woman stopped and turned.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson.”

John swallowed his coffee and smiled. “Morning.”

Sherlock didn’t look at him. Or he wouldn’t, one of the two. John made silent please with his eyes to get him to look as the woman slipped her feet into her _very_ highheels and straightened her jacket. Then she grabbed her coat. Sherlock smiled when she looked up at him, a silent cue to be led to the front door. He guided her again, down the stairs John felt alone in a room of three. Usually it was Sherlock who was separated from a group. But somehow John felt a connection between Sherlock and whoever this girl was.

John looked into his mug, gently moving it in circles and causing the coffee to spiral up onto the sides. He heard soft words at the front door, first from the woman’s soprano voice, then a few from Sherlock’s baritone.

Surely John would have heard-

The door shut quietly, and John waited for Sherlock to come back up, back against the living room doorway. But there was no movement.

***

The expression of John’s face forced Sherlock to avoid it entirely. This was unwanted; John’s face was usually the center of Sherlock’s atmosphere. It settled him in times of danger and it grounded him in times of irritation. His eyes, especially- they were the skies to Sherlock’s fields of green. One look was all it took.

But he had no desire to answer any questions. He had hoped John would sleep in later; all he needed was five more minutes. But of course John would hear something and then decide to stay up. Of course. This one morning.

He opened the front door for her as she stepped out and turned around. She smiled up at him and lightly touched his arm. It made him look away from the ground and into her eyes. They weren’t as blue as John’s.

“He’ll understand.” But Sherlock didn’t think so. His mind was moving too fast for anything sensible to come out. _Apology, regret, excuse._ What was he to say to John?

“No, he won’t.” And that was the truth. She only smiled sadly and gripped Sherlock’s arm before kissing his cheek lightly, and went out. Sherlock shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to go upstairs. He didn’t want to see John, and yet, everything opposite of that statement was true as well. He did.

John’s stare was annoying, like pins and needles long after you’ve woken up and given your arm some circulation. He felt it into his back and neck as he went over to the file cabinet and locked it. John sat down in his chair, still watching. It was silent except for a sip of his coffee ever few seconds.

***

John knew that Sherlock knew he was looking at him. Dammit, why wouldn’t he just look up?

John didn’t care if the girl spent the night.

“Who was she?”

Sherlock looked down out of one of the left front windows.

“Angela Bansfury. Old friend.”

 _Yeah._ “Old friend?” John sipped his coffee.

“Yes.”

“What does she do?” John tried not to sound too curious.

“She is…a family lawyer.”

Ah, that makes sense now. She’s smart, and looked the part. She could probably remember laws from heart. Maybe that was Sherlock’s kink. If he had one.

“Good night, then?”

Sherlock turned around and looked at John oddly, eyebrows furrowing. Then, after two seconds, they relaxed and he let his stiff posture fall.

“Didn’t sleep very much.”

“Mmm.” John’s eyebrows rose as he took another sip.

“She needed help with a case,” Sherlock tried.

“Doesn’t matter, not my life.” Was all that John said. He looked down in his lap.

And suddenly Sherlock’s head was there, forehead lightly pressed on John’s knee and his hand gripping his leg. John set the coffee mug on the table beside him and looked down at Sherlock’s curls.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and ragged. John sat up, feeling scared.

“Sherlock, I said it doesn’t mat-“

But Sherlock interrupted. “I know you won’t understand this now, and you’ll hate me for it, but you have to understand that I’m sorry.”

John’s hand automatically rested on the back of Sherlock’s head-fingers tangled in his dark curls- as he looked straight ahead, into the window.

“You have to know that. I’m sorry.”

John took a breath in. He didn’t understand. Was Sherlock apologizing for being with some girl, like he thought John was jealous? John really wasn’t. He wasn’t jealous at all. Let Sherlock do what he wanted, with whom he wanted. That wasn’t his call.

 _“What would you do, if I wasn’t here anymore?”_

 _“What, you mean, in the flat?”_

 _Sherlock sat back, tea mug in hand, and gave a non-committal shrug.”Sure.”_

 _“Well...I guess I’d move out? Can’t afford-“_

 _“Of course Mycroft would pay my part of the rent if I left.”_

 _“Don’t know if I’d let him do that.”_

 _“Helps Mrs. Hudson.”_

 _“I guess so.”_

 _It was silent for a few moments. Then John thought-_

 _“Where would you go, though? Am I that bad of a flatmate?”_

 _Sherlock chuckled. “Surely not. But things happen. You never know. I could die, or you could…get married.”_

 _John couldn’t imagine those things at that moment. He liked things the way they were, now._

John breathed in again, steadying his pulse. Sherlock stood and looked at him.

“Sherlock.” John said quietly. “I don’t understand.”

But Sherlock only gave him a look, the same one as the other night when John tried to calm him from his dream, and walked away. He shut his bedroom door, leaving John alone with his thoughts. And the air that something had changed.


	8. Omit, 7:13 pm

**Omit. v. to fail to include, or mention.**

**_The thirteenth of April, 7:13 pm._ **

Sherlock was sitting in his chair-lied back, sprawled out, violin in hand. He played triplets and eighths, repeating, and the notes eventually cascaded into a melody. He moved his arm in fluid motions, the bow grating against strings in the very best way. John lowered his book and watched him, head resting against one hand. It was nice to hear Sherlock play again. Since the 7th Sherlock’s burned hand kept him from it. John liked sitting and just listening to the notes. Sometimes they were full of feeling; sometimes they were only beats and rests. Sherlock never played a “happy” tone, but John could sometimes sense a bit of content in the chords. He loved being able to tell how Sherlock _might_ be feeling when he played. It was a silent warning to some sarcastic attitudes; a wordless mention of a decent mood.

And then there were the times that John could swear to himself Sherlock was sad. Sherlock never showcased an emotion where crying and regretting were normal human reactions to a situation or experience. He never spoke of sad things, save for once or twice absently mentioning that he hated inheriting his mother’s attributes over his father’s- or recalling the _one time_ Sherlock had used and intended to die. In a world where emotion runs right over practicality in most cases, Sherlock knew that his feelings were null and void to anything important. And even if he had these feelings, John wasn’t entirely sure Sherlock knew how to tell the difference, how to express it properly. But there were those few times. John could hear them in the music.

The songs held chords of swaying sadness, movements that any girl could easily shed a tear for and a man could remember when his mother died. The progression from the first beat to the next felt like a silent admission to John, one Sherlock never learned to speak aloud. John would watch Sherlock play, and _feel_ sad. Sherlock would move with the violin as if he were embracing it, closing his eyes and closing himself off from the world, even John. One evening John had to leave the room- because it felt like he was intruding, and he remembered things he didn’t want to.

John recognized it right away, watching Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes and sat up straighter, holding the violin tighter. A minor chord flowed into another, and John instantly wished it was different. It didn’t make him feel any better from the other day, when Sherlock’s unexplained apology turned a comfortable break into a tense premonition. He listened to the vibrato of the notes and felt worse than he did then, if that was possible. Unsettling wasn’t enough to explain it.

But as John thought of asking Sherlock if he wanted tea-anything to pause the sadness filling the room, there was a sound at the door. Sherlock stopped immediately, rolling his eyes and twirling the bow in his hand. He plucked the G string angrily. John knew that only meant one thing.

Mycroft’s footsteps were loud in the silence. John straightened out in the chair and looked to the hallway. Sherlock turned his face in the opposite direction, probably in an attempt to hide the splash of red on his neck and face. It was useless.

Mycroft spoke before even fully entering the room. “Well, as evasive as you are, I am finally in knowledge of _why_ I had to explain the destroying of a building in under eight minutes. Did you really expect-“ and then he stopped, stopped walking and stopped talking-because he saw Sherlock.

The burn wasn’t nearly as bad as it was five days ago (John takes credit for that), but to someone who hadn’t seen it, and _on_ someone who’s face almost epitomized perfection, it was still a sight to see. And Sherlock didn’t bandage his hand anymore (despite John’s requests, of course), so the light scarring on his wrist was visible to anyone within twenty feet. And even more to someone in the same room.

Mycroft set his jaw and swallowed, glancing at John. John looked away, unsure of what to do. Sherlock still looked toward the fireplace, ignoring them both. It was only after a moment that John realized Anthe was in the doorway, on her phone. Mycroft angled his thin neck to try and see more of Sherlock’s face, or maybe to look him in the eye.

“Are you alright?” his voice was the quietest John had heard since they met.

_I worry about him…constantly._

Sherlock sighed and turned his head, admitting defeat. “What do you want?”

“Mummy heard, she’s been asking-“

“If you tell Mother, I shall make sure to disclose the _last_ agreement we made. I’m sure the royalty would love that.”

“It was a party, once.”

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Anything prompting you to buy me a brand new laptop must be _worth_ hiding.”

Mycroft sighed, shoulders moving with him. “You are lucky you weren’t killed.”

Sherlock huffed and twirled the bow once, raising the violin and striking a note. “Lucky.”

“You should think twice before taking cases you aren’t sure the outcome of. Remember the pool.”

Two things happened in one second.

John stopped breathing and felt plugs in his ears, as if water had surrounded him. He took a sharp breath in.

Sherlock thought of deafening noise and felt a weight on his chest, akin to bricks. His bow took an unnatural turn on a string as he twitched.

They looked at each other- Sherlock’s violin still raised, John gripping his book tighter. John was the first to look away-usually Sherlock broke their gazes first, but lately he looked into John’s eyes long after John looked away.

“I have noticed a few things in your bank records, Sherlock. They are most intriguing.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted away from John’s and to Mycroft’s now, a silent warning. But Mycroft continued.

“Ah…your old violin,” he nodded to it, “Perfect for when you were taking lesson, but I know it isn’t your Stradivarius. Where is that, by the way?”

John’s eyes moved to said violin and studied it. He never noticed the scratches on it, the chipped neck and chinrest. It certainly didn’t shine the way the Strat did. But why would Sherlock sell it?

Sherlock set the violin down in his lap, seemingly uncaring. “This is ridiculous. Leave.” But Mycroft only grinned.

“I was wondering about that deposit. Planning on going somewhere? Behind in the rent? You need only ask for funds; I hate for you to waste your talent on _that_ old thing.”

Sherlock glared. “This one is fine for its purpose. I don’t need the other one.”

“Your most valuable possession?” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

John knew the violin was Sherlock’s most prized object, Stradivarius or not. Sherlock took great care of it, polishing it and tuning the strings the way an old woman would bathe a cat. He used gentle hands and murmured to it. John had never seen anyone so… _attached_ to one thing. When asked, Sherlock only once told him it was the only thing to connect him to something worldly. From childhood, it was his only outlet to anything outside of his mind.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Is that all you wanted? I’m not doing anything illegal, you’ve seen the burns. I think you can go.” He stood calmly and headed toward the kitchen, carrying the bow with him. Mycroft’s eyes followed him.

“And how about the lawyer?”

Sherlock stopped and tightened his grip on the bow, it pointing to the floor parallel to his leg. Mycroft turned his body in Sherlock’s direction, picking his umbrella up and eyeing the metal tip.

“I hear she has a very _interesting_ file, I’m in the process of obtaining it-“

File…file? John turned around to see Sherlock.

But Sherlock turned and snarled. “I _said,_ is that all?” His irritation showed now.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose again. “Such _anger_ ,Sherlock. Have I struck a nerve? I don’t know why you’re trying to hide anything.” Sherlock’s breaths seemed shorter.

John stood then, confused. “Sherlock, what’s he-“

“It is nothing. Mycroft just wants to meddle with things he has no business in.” his head turned sharply to Mycroft.

John recognized this before. Sherlock’s eyes and face, the way he spoke calmly but irritated. He’d seen it once, but couldn’t place it.

 

“I hardly think that, Sherlock. It is customary for an older brother to worry about such things. Besides, I think we should discuss the changes you so obviously made to our agreement on this…” he glanced to John for a moment and then back to Sherlock, “file.”

Sherlock only strode to the doorway to the living room and pointed his bow to the stairs, looking at him. Rage blazed in his eyes. “Out.”

_“I am clean.” Sherlock glared at Lestrade._

_“Is your flat? All of it?”_

_A stripe of fear showed in Sherlock’s face and he smoothed it, before unbuttoning his cuff._

He _was_ hiding something. John’s heart pounded in his chest. What file?

Mycroft sighed and stepped in that direction, pausing in front of Sherlock. He lightly touched Sherlock’s shoulder with the tip of his umbrella, making Sherlock flinch.

“I’ll be back. Try not to set any more buildings on fire…or get yourself killed. Come, Anthea.”

Anthea looked up from her phone to Sherlock, biting her lip. He glared and shook the bow again in the direction of downstairs. Within minutes the front door was closed and Sherlock was angrily gathering his laptop, papers and books. John stood in the same spot, alternating between looking down at the floor and watching him.

“Sherlock, what did he mean? What file?”

Sherlock ignored him.

“Sherlock, I’m serious. You better not be hiding anything.”

Sherlock walked past him and into his room, closing the door. John stood silently, thoughts swarming. It was all too much. He started to get angry now, too. He went to Sherlock’s door and opened it without knocking. He never did that, it was an unspoken rule in the flat. Sherlock never went into John’s room uninvited and John never went into Sherlock’s. Occasionally they would sit on the edges of one of their bed’s together and discuss a case, or when one of them was sick the other would sit in the chair and keep them company. But never did John barge into Sherlock’s room. Partly because he didn’t want to see the mess, partly because he didn’t want to see Sherlock’s anger.

But he opened the door wide to see Sherlock sitting on the far end of his bed, open notebook in his hand. His head snapped up in John’s direction, and he looked appalled that John even _dared._

“Wha-John!”

“Shut up, just shut up!” Johns hand clenched the doorknob.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide in surprise.

“What was Mycroft talking about? Stop avoiding the damned question.”

Sherlock stood and looked at him. “It isn’t _important.”_

“He thought it was-”

“Of _course_ he did, he thinks every menial happening is something to be shared.”

“You never share anything!”

“What am I supposed to share, exactly?”

“You’ve been saying the weirdest things to me, acting really odd-“ But Sherlock stopped listening and mumbled to himself.

“You and him, trying to invade my life, it’s a waste of time.”

Now John was angry. “Oh, and you don’t invade my life?”

“Some life to invade-“

John’s finger rose, stopping him.

“No, Sherlock. No. This isn’t a battle of wits. I’m your _friend_ and I want to know what the hell going on.”

Sherlock clenched his own fists and looked at the wall.

John said the first thing that came into his mind, quietly.

“Sherlock, are you sick?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “You are a medical man. You’d know if I was. If not, that’s saying how good you are.” John ignored the last comment.

“So you’re not…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What? Go on, say it.”

“You’re not…dying?” John choked on the word.

“I’m not sick, John.”

**Omit. v. to pass over; neglect.**

Sherlock closed the notebook and tossed it aside on the bed.

John exhaled. “Well…what is it, then? You loved your Strat.”

“It’s not important, I told you. Please, John. Leave it be.” He looked down and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. The plea in his voice made John shiver. He shifted in the doorway.

 “It’s not fair, you know.” John spoke with irritation. “It’s not fair that you have all these secrets, when you can have one look at me and know my life story. Maybe I want to know what you’re thinking for once.”

Sherlock laid back on the bed and crossed his hands on his chest.

“All you have to do is ask, John. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, right now.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Okay, then.” He stepped inside the room, crunching something underneath his feet.

“Careful,” Sherlock said. “Everything is in its proper place.”

John rolled his eyes. “What are you thinking right now, then?” He hoped this would reveal something, something Sherlock was hiding, or even something he wasn’t hiding but John didn’t know.

Sherlock spoke immediately.

“I am thinking that my brother is an idiot.”


	9. Distract; 7:12 pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for the length of this chapter; I am sure it's longer than the first 8 and maybe the longest chapter I've written yet. But it had to be done to show the development of what's going on in this chapter along. *Eyeroll* Yeah, it's complicated.
> 
> In addition to that I would like to just make a note that This chapter is mostly (until otherwise indicated) taking place in the past. The first sentence should tell you that but I've been confused by those kinds of chapters before. It should be clear when we go back into the present, towards the end. I hope you enjoy! I've been working on this part for a long time and it is so far one of my favorite chapters.
> 
> One more note, apparently AO3 doesn't like me this week and refuses to italicize, bold, or even double space between lines. I don't know why, I fized the spacing but I am working on the italicize. Until then I will do something else to indicate the 'past' conversations and such. Sorry!

It was immediately following the so called "pool incident" that Sherlock Holmes threw himself into an unhealthy load of research. Jim Moriarty was the one and only thing Sherlock read, wrote, ate, slept, and breathed for that period of time. John watched him do it, day after day-Sherlock would wake up, grab the laptop, read the paper, laptop, paper, doze off. He barely ate (he rarely ate before, of course, but this time it was nothing, not even tea). John encouraged him to eat constantly.

"It'll help your brain think," he'd try, and Sherlock would huff in response. John was proud of himself when he convinced Sherlock to drink just one cup of tea. It seemed a petty accomplishment, but he took what he could get. Eventually Sherlock would consume just the one cup of tea, and one of coffee each day. If John ranted on about it hard enough, he convinced Sherlock to have some burnt toast or even a biscuit with cheese. Sherlock would be angry at him for an hour or so, but it wore off the deeper he delved into the research.

Finding information about Moriarty proved to be more difficult than Sherlock thought, and more often than not, his brain felt too full of the information he didn't need rather than information he could use. Twenty-six days after the incident was when he smoked his first cigarette in over eighteen months. He found it in his top desk drawer. Within twenty-four hours he had purchased and smoked through three more packs. It was an easy fallback for Sherlock, one that helped him clear his mind for long enough to scour another article and file it away as needed. It wasn't until seven days after that John came home and saw him lying on the sofa, cigarette in hand.

"What is that?" John asked, taking a breath. Sherlock stared at him for a moment.

"It is a cigarette."

John rolled his eyes. "I know what it is, why do you have it? You quit ages ago." He toed off his shoes.

Sherlock breathed out a smooth cloud of smoke above his head. "I'm smoking it."

John was irritated now. Cheeky bastard.

"Sherlock, you shouldn't be smoking."

Sherlock looked at him, uncaring. "I could go outside if you'd prefer."

"I'd prefer you didn't smoke at all!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock looked at him, surprised. John was honestly surprised at himself. It was only smoking, for goodness' sake. Nearly everyone smoked in London, these days especially. But smoking was something different for Sherlock. It wasn't just a habit for him. And John didn't want Sherlock to rely on it, especially with Moriarty. He was vulnerable enough.

John shifted his weight to his other leg. "Look, why now? You've quit. This isn't going to help find him in the immediate future."

Sherlock sighed and finished off his fifth cigarette of the day. "Clears the brain."

"What about the patches?"

"Not effective enough." Sherlock pressed the end of the cigarette into the ashtray on the table.

John sighed. "Is this really helping?" It'd be the only reason he'd let it happen, and even then, he felt a weight in his stomach.

Sherlock looked at him. "I'm waiting for the click in my head. When it comes, I stop."

John rubbed his eyes, not even caring to understand that one. "Is this going to be a permanent thing?"

Sherlock turned his head again. "Not sure."

John sighed. "I want this to stop eventually. If nothing else, it'll make the flat reek."

"I said I would smoke outs-"

John stopped him. "No, Sherlock. This can't go on. Do what you need to do, and then that's it." He turned went to the kitchen.

Sherlock responded with the click of the lighter on a new cigarette.

And so Sherlock was smoking again.

***

Two weeks later John was on his way to pick Sarah up from her office. They were going to get dinner after work and maybe a movie. It would have been their twelfth date (after the pool).

When he knocked on the door, the only response he got was a coughing fit from the inside. He opened the door and saw Sarah, seemingly neck-deep in tissues and coughing into another one.

"I'm guessing tonight's off then," he said, smiling and sitting down.

"No, no, I'm fine." She rubbed her nose and started piling the tissues in her trash can.

"Sarah, you need rest."

"I'll be fine."

John gave her "the look". The one he gave Sherlock when he needed to eat, the one gave him when he didn't sleep, the one he gave him probably ten times each day. It was the look that guilted you, the one that made you admit defeat.

Sarah laughed. "Oh, shut up. I'll take some cough syrup tonight." She stood and grabbed her coat from the rack beside the window, but John stayed seated.

"You need to rest, Sarah, seriously. I need you healthy this week, someone's already called in and you're the only other capable one here. Not like-" Sarah hushed him, quieting a fit of giggles. He laughed too, reaching behind him to shut the door.

"Fine, "Sarah said, smiling, "You win. I'll go home. Rain check, then." She sat on the edge Of John's chair, turned toward him. He grinned.

"Yes, don't try to get out of it now. You've already played the sick card. That's all you're getting."

Sarah smiled and leaned over slightly. "It really is too bad I'm sick. I've been looking forward to kissing you."

John's heartbeat sped up and he looked to Sarah's lips, licking his own.

"I don't see why you being sick has to change those plans." He looks into her eyes.

Sarah grinned wide and leaned closer. "You're a doctor, you know better than to be kissing sick people."

"I never follow my own advice." John sat up straighter, feeling Sarah's breath on him. He felt his body move out of sheer _want_ , and his lips touched hers.

Sarah leaned into him quickly, slowly slipping down the arm of the chair and into his lap. John reached up and held the back of her head, fingers threaded through her hair. She turned more toward him with her upper body and John knowingly pressed into her; the new pressure made his pulse rise even higher, if even possible. Sarah pressed into John's lips harder, and John replied; breaths of warmth making him shiver. He gripped her side with his hand; moving quickly with his lips. Her hands reached around and gripped John's neck and shoulder.

Suddenly Sarah pulled away, John leaning after her. She smiled a sweet smile at him.

"Keep that up and I may recover much more quickly," she giggled. John laughed and swiped his thumb over her shoulder.

"I'll keep it up then, once you do recover. You need sleep, though. And fluids. All that crap."

Sarah laughed, standing up and slipping her coat on. "I'll call you tomorrow, then?"

John handed Sarah her purse and opened the door. "Of course."

John took his time coming home. It was nice, not having to rush back to the flat because of a text from Sherlock saying he needed him but not explaining why. John never knew how seriously to take these texts anyway; once it was to send a text to a murderer, once was when he was locked up in his own closet (John never did find out why).

John considered texting Sherlock, telling him he was on his way home. No, not this time. Sherlock will ask for him to pick something up, he'll tell him to hurry up he needs him, he'll make a crack about the cancelled date. John could definitely wait until he got home for that.

The walk home felt shorter than usual. John stepped inside 221B and took his coat off, heading upstairs. What he walked into made him stop.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, head in the direction of the door. His head was back and eyes closed. But what stood out was Sherlock's left arm. His sleeve was pushed up and a piece of fabric tied was around his upper arm. That normally would have been enough for John but he couldn't move, and he soaked up the image. He would never forget it. Sherlock's arm dangled from the couch, crook upwards. There was a pinhole dot of blood there, and less than a foot away on the ground, a syringe. Glass and with something still in it, but nearly gone. John thought of the first night they spent together, after A Study in Pink.

_"Why, though? You're so smart. Why do something like that?"_

_Sherlock sighed and sat back in his chair. "Not important."_

_John shifted uncomfortably. "You know they're bad for you, but you did it anyway. Is that...was that some sort of thrill?"_

_Sherlock sat up in the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and hands folded under his chin._

_"No. Not a thrill. Escape, I suppose." He waited for John's reaction._

_John looked confused and laughed a little. "Escape. Oh."_

_"Is that amusing?" Sherlock retorted._

_"No, no, I just…" John looked away from Sherlock's intense stare. "Just a long day, I guess. You know, just killed a guy."_

_Sherlock chuckled, to John's surprise. John laughed, too, and after a few seconds Sherlock relaxed again, leaning back._

_"My body moved too slow for me, is all. Hard to run cases when you need so much sleep."_

_"Was it…was it a lot, then?" John looked at him. Sherlock cracked his knuckles, crossing his leg._

_"At times. I took enough until I felt…" he paused._

_A click._

_"…no need for it. It got out of hand at times."_

_John crossed his leg too. "Who got you clean?"_

_"Collaborative effort. Mycroft informed Lestrade when I collapsed in the house, because Lestrade was closer to the flat than him. I woke up in the hospital two days later. Lestrade said no more, or no more cases." Sherlock exhaled._

_John looked down. "Right, well, I'm glad you're clean then. Bad stuff."_

_Sherlock said nothing and went to his laptop._

John moved automatically, dropping to his knees next to the sofa. He held his fingers over Sherlock's wrist and -his pulse was there, but barely. John put his hand up to Sherlock's face and slapped it lightly. His own pulse drowned his ears.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't move. John started panicking, checking Sherlock's eyes. What the hell was Sherlock thinking, anyway? Why would-

Sherlock stirred then, opening his eyes slowly. He jumped up, surprised at John leaning over him, face to face. They stayed like that for a minute; Sherlock shrunk back into the sofa's pillows and John above him.

"Wha-" Sherlock looked around, wide eyed, at his surroundings. "What are you doing?"

John leaned back and rested on his knees. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock sat up, scratching his head lightly. "I thought you had a date."

"So you decide to start using again?" John yelled louder this time. Sherlock leaned back again, folding his hands.

"I decided to start using yesterday. Your date just brought the opportunity." He said simply. "Had a row with Sarah, then?"

John stood up and picked his coat up from the floor. "No. And stop changing the subject. What in _God's_ name were you thinking?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "Just taking a break."

John took a deep breath and slung his coat over the chair. It all settled in now, what had happened. The seconds caught up with him. He suddenly felt angry and turned around.

"No. You're not doing this. I'm calling your brother."

Sherlock laughed. "Surely Mycroft knows already, he's probably looking for a trustworthy supply for me to use." He sat up and rolled his sleeve down. "It's not as if I've relapsed into a state of helplessness."

John tilted his head, dumbfounded. "You're too smart to get into that again, why do it?"

"I said, I needed a break. Did you not hear me?" Sherlock said, irritated.

John leaned forward, throwing his hands up. "You were unconscious! And what would have happened if I hadn't come home? You'd never wake up?"

"I took the minimal dose-" Sherlock stood, trying to argue.

"The minimal dose is nothing, Sherlock!" John was yelling now. Sherlock stopped and moved his head away, seemingly offended. He watched John breathing hard for a moment.

"This…" Sherlock paused, "whatever effect my using has on you is not desirable, John. Please file away your thoughts and opinions for the time being. I haven't got the time to console you for problems that aren't yours." He walked to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. "I'll make the tea, just…sit down or something." He waved his hand.

John took a breath and sat in his chair, waiting quietly. Soon there was a cup of tea in his hands and he was taking the first sip. Sherlock sat in his own chair, cup in his hand. He set it on the table and opened the paper.

Neither of them said anything. John sipped his tea and Sherlock turned the pages of the paper over, reading slowly. Eventually John had finished, and held the cup and saucer in his hands above his lap.

"So I'm just supposed to not care?" He looked at the paper until Sherlock folded it over, his face coming into view.

"Yes." He looked surprised that John was even asking.

John blinked. "You could be killing yourself. You will eventually." He gripped the mug's handle with his fingers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Shut up, John."

John didn't say anything else that night.

And so Sherlock was using again, too.

***

John watched him every minute he could, after that. He took early shifts so he'd only work when Sherlock may be sleeping (not that Sherlock had a regular sleep schedule, but John tried), and he stayed at home when he could. Sometimes John couldn't tell when Sherlock had taken anything; on a normal day Sherlock could be quiet, irritated at little things, bored, etc. But sometimes John could tell the slight difference. Sherlock would lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling; but instead of the normal fashion of doing so (bored, of course) he would look dreamily, as if the ceiling or any other object he inspected had some sort of secret he wanted to figure out. Other times John could tell when he was on something different; Sherlock would pace around the house, mumbling to himself- and then he would crash and fall asleep, or lie on the floor whining about being tired or bored.

Mycroft came over more now, too. He and John searched the bedroom and the kitchen for anything. Mrs. Hudson would help, asking Sherlock to run errands so they'd have a chance to look around. Naturally, Sherlock knew. But John never found anything to hold against Sherlock which made the whole thing more difficult.

"It will stop when he is presented with a hard lesson proving to him that he needs to," Mycroft remarked.

"He's your brother, send him to rehab!" John said.

"You really think we can do that? If Sherlock want a clear mind he will clear it, no matter the results."

Two weeks had passed since Sherlock's headfirst dive back into addiction, and John was reading a book in his chair. The door downstairs slammed with a thud. John's eyes grew wide- he could have sworn Sherlock was in his room all day. John waited a few seconds, listening, until he heard Sherlock's voice mumble something unintelligible. So he did leave. John must have not been paying attention. Good Job, John.

The footsteps came up the stairs slowly but loudly. Each step was a loud shuffle into the carpet as Sherlock seemingly dragged himself up the stairs. He stopped at the doorway and looked inside, his eyes darting across the room. John watched him.

Sherlock's eyes were moving awfully fast, and his head tilted a bit. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, wringing his hands before shaking them, as if they were wet. John watched, eyebrows furrowed, and wondered what it was. He'd seen it before.

"Are you okay?" He asked, with a quiet voice. Sherlock shifted his gaze to John. "Fine."

John kept watching him. Sherlock moved slowly about the room, gathering a few of his things (laptop, notebook) and heading toward his room. John craned his neck to see him pass. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock stopped. "Bored."

John turned more and looked at him. "What are you doing, though?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, an odd gesture for him to do, and went into his room. John went back to his book, shaking his head. He ignored the heavy feeling inside, the one that told him to worry.

Two hours later Sherlock still hadn't come out of his room; and John did get worried. It was silent, too. It was silent a lot at 221B, when Sherlock was in a bad mood or when he was thinking, when he was (rarely) sleeping and in the mornings. But John learned that there were two different kinds of silences at 221B now. There was the normal one, a silence of voices and all things communication, and then there was this one. It was an empty silence, nothing moving inside the flat. No chimes from Sherlock's phone, no keyboard buttons being pressed clacked away on, and no Sherlock loudly pacing the floor. It felt weird, this silence. It seemed loud, if that made any sense. John set his book down and stood, heading over to Sherlock's bedroom door and lightly knocking.

When John knocked on Sherlock's door, one of two things happened: Sherlock would either yell at him to come in (in the fashion of annoyance, usually), or he would yell at him to go away (also in the fashion of annoyance). Usually Sherlock didn't care if John came into his room as long as he knocked. He always gave him a response. Sherlock always replies. But this time, John stood, ear to the door, and waited for a response. There was nothing. The silence felt even louder in John's ears, and his pulse picked up. He turned the doorknob (surprisingly, it was unlocked), and opened the door to look inside.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, facedown. His left arm hung over the edge of the bed and his face was turned away from John, right arm huddled close to his body. It took John three seconds to get over the denial that he might have just been unconscious; yes, he could have been sleeping, but he barely did that anyway. Once again the tell-tale syringe and Sherlock's sleeve pushed messily up the elbow told John all he needed to know.

He tried to roll Sherlock over with ease (a difficult job; Sherlock felt heavier than usual and him being on his stomach proved to be an awkward position), and open his eyelids. His pupils didn't respond- and that should have told John, should have forced him to slip his phone out of his pocket and call 999. His pulse was faint-he was a doctor, Jesus, John, call an ambulance- But John struggled between the two very worst parts of himself. One part told him everything was fine, all fine, Sherlock would wake up and it would be fine. Sherlock would wake up and be okay.

And then there was the other part of John, the pessimist, the worrier, the no-nonsense John Watson that spoke the truth and _I told you this would happen, Sherlock_ that told John what he dreaded. That Sherlock was dead, and even if he did call 999 it wouldn't matter. Time stood still as John called Sherlock's name. It stopped and John wished with everything he had that he could transfuse the sound of his own hear pounding over to Sherlock- and two things happened in one second:

John reached for his phone, pressing the first 9 in a series of three.

And Sherlock shot straight up in bed, gasping for air and scaring the shit out of John. The phone fell to the floor.

John grabbed Sherlock by the arms and forced him to lie down again, and Sherlock's gasping turned into panting, which morphed into him swearing under his breath. Sweat beaded on his brow and he locked eye with John's, exhaling and unsure what to do. He knew right away why John was looking like that. It made for an awkward awakening and an even more awkward silence afterwards.

John stared back at him for exactly thirty-two seconds before standing quickly, hand up and slightly pointing at Sherlock as he prepared what he was going to say. But John had no clue what he was going to say, or even what he wanted to say, so he did the first thing that came to mind.

Suddenly Sherlock's left cheek throbbed and he was slightly turned over, holding it with his right hand. He peeked up with his eyes to see John leaning over him with his right hand still fisted, shaking it slightly as if he were trying to stop himself from punching Sherlock again. Sherlock shifted slowly and sat up a little, leaning his back against the headboard. And after sixteen more seconds of Sherlock being stared at like he was the Devil himself, John spoke with such a harsh voice that Sherlock stopped breathing (how ironic, he thought).

"That-" a point of his finger to Sherlock's dresser where the vial sat- "is enough. If you are going to kill yourself kindly to me the favor of being far, far away from here. Because if I come home to you doing this again I swear to Christ _alive_ that you are going to wish you overdosed, wished that it was painful and _excruciating_ , rather than having to deal with me punching you ten times harder than I just did now."

Sherlock swallowed and his eyes met John's. That was the angriest he had seen him ever in the months they'd been living together. John looked like he was having an out of body experience, clenched fist and rapid movements in his chest. Sherlock stared, wide-eyed, and John wondered if he was actually scared for a second. No, this was Sherlock. He wasn't scared. But John hoped in the very least the words startled him a little. But it seemed a silly threat, either way.

John blinked and looked down at his hand, unclenching it. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath, not looking back at Sherlock before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. He went straight to his own bed then, although the idea of sleep was far away.

And it was a good thing, Sherlock thought, that John didn't look back up at him. Because Sherlock knew if John had looked up and met his eyes again, Sherlock would have asked him to stay there. Maybe not with words, he reminded himself, because how do you even ask that? But Sherlock knew that he would have asked John to stay in his room that night, because the idea of being alone scared him. And John would have stayed, just because Sherlock asked. That was the part that scared Sherlock the most, for some reason. He lied down again, but his eyes never closed more than to blink every nine seconds.

Sherlock walked into the living room the next morning with the long black case in his shaking hands. He stood in front of John's chair, and John looked up at him after setting the paper in his lap. Sherlock slowly extended the case out, licking his lips.

John spent the next six days in and out of the bathroom with Sherlock, with a cool rag in his hand and a weight lifted from his shoulders. It was the worst detox Sherlock had ever been through, and yet it was the best at the same time. Sherlock never once said thank you to John, but at three in the morning on the fifth day, Sherlock fell asleep on the cool tile with John's hand in his, pressed over his sweat-soaked tee shirt where Sherlock felt his heart would be if he had one.

It was the only time John felt he might have been a hero to anyone.

***

**Distract: v. To divert attention from; to confuse**

**_The thirteenth of April, 7:12 pm._ **

John walked home from the clinic in the rain (he was back to working now, but it was only his second shift that week), stopping to get takeaway. Sherlock had been particularly insufferable that morning, whining about Why wasn't his face any better (well, because you keep scratching at it) and Why can't anyone write a decent news article without-(then don't read the paper, Sherlock, do something else!). John left, sighing into the sun that seemed promising but broke at about noon, and since then the rain urged John to hurry home despite the fact that he could have done without Sherlock's complaining for a few minutes longer.

But once he stepped into the living room he wished he'd been there sooner. John felt something pang in his chest as he saw the sight of Sherlock on the couch. He was in the exact same position as he found him the afternoon of the last cancelled date John ever had with Sarah, except that his eyes were open and he was awake.

John sighed and carried the two bags of food into the kitchen before going back to in front of the couch, his hands on his hips. He wasn't sure if that was to show Sherlock he was angry or if it was because his hands were shaking. Sherlock only sighs and looked at him before saying one thing:

"They won't kill me."

And because John didn't have the heart to remind Sherlock (or himself) that it could in fact kill him, and because he didn't even know how he'd even begin to argue, he only walked back into the kitchen and wondered why Sherlock was at it again. Was Moriarty back, bothering him? And he just didn't tell John what was going on? It would make sense, the way Sherlock's been. John bit his lip and started making a plate for himself, wishing he could understand. And then John thought of something else- the way Sherlock said it. Which word had the emphasis on it? They won't _kill_ me? Or _they_ -

Sherlock sighed and turned his face into the couch cushion, closing his eyes and wishing he could forget the look on John's face.


	10. Admission; 6:18 pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've kept with me so far on this story, then I am eternally grateful to you. This fic is one I consider to me my...baby, of sorts. There are a lot of feelings I have right now toward it, and a lot of plans too. I hope it's still at least partial quality to you.
> 
> I have made up a small playlist (still in progress, of course) for this fic. You can find it at http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL73AD2FDE6A512B0C&feature=mh_lolz 
> 
> If you are emotionally attached to the fic I beg, /beg/ you to go back and reread it before or after chapter ten. It's the only way I can wrap my head around a few things, and I hope that after this chapter (and the next, when it's posted) a few things will become just a little bit clearer. The songs in the playlist are the ones I listened while writing the fic, and brainstormed. This is half-beta'd, but I tried to catch any typos I could. I'll be going through the entire fic along with my others a slowly to edit. Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated.

**_The fourteenth of April, 6:18 pm, Baker Street, London_ **

It had been eight days since Sherlock was burned; and the boredom that had only been starting to show was in full bloom, a hanging pendulum over the flat, but mostly just over Sherlock. It had only been one day since John realized Sherlock was indulging himself, yet again, in the stillness that his morphine provided or the excitement the cocaine brought. And yet it felt like it had been a week already.

Sherlock went to bed fairly early the night before, which surprised John immensely. Since Sherlock was mostly relaxing around the house ( _“Relaxing, hah,” Sherlock always said. “Being bored  is not what I’d call ‘relaxing’.”),_ he had more energy than usual. So when Sherlock packed up his laptop and nodded to John only a little after it had gotten dark, and said goodnight, John raised an eyebrow.

“What, you’re tired? It’s only…” he checked his watch. “8:30.”

Sherlock looked up as if contemplating something for a minute, and then back down.

“I don’t feel like staying up,” he said simply. “Goodnight.” And with that Sherlock went into his room, leaving John to his book and the sound of the echoing television drowning into the dark.

The next morning John woke up early, despite the lack of sleep he had gotten. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t sleep; no vivid dreams and no shoulder aches. But there was the feeling that John still had. The one he had had for nearly a week now. As mentioned before it was an unexplainable feeling, and as a storyteller John felt almost guilty that he wasn’t able to describe it to even himself, let alone anyone else.

In fact, since Sherlock came home marked from the fire John hadn’t talked to anyone _but_ Sherlock. There was the phone call to Sarah, a few texts from Lestrade. But that was it; he hadn’t even called Harry. It was like 221B formed a bubble around the two of them, and neither of them had any thought of popping it to get out. Unless it was John to pick up takeaway.

John, of course, set the kettle to boil and got the paper for Sherlock without a second thought. Most mornings this was the routine if he woke first. It was that or wait for Sherlock to ask for it. And Sherlock never asked, he hinted at or reminded or make a sarcastic comment about it until you got the point, _Shut up Sherlock, I’ll get the damned paper._ When the front door was open just enough for John to slip his hand out and grab the newspaper, he noticed it was very bright. The sun hadn’t shown in a few days and for some reason, this new light inching into the hall made John stop for a moment, and then proceed to open the door a few more inches.

The sun was almost blinding. John squinted a bit but let the warmth trickle over his outstretched arm for about thirty seconds. The, upon realizing he only had his dressing gown on still, and there was a quick but cool breeze, he grabbed the paper and shut the door. He smiled as he walked up the stairs.

It was a beautiful day.

Three hours passed; John had read the paper, drank a cup of tea and worked on updating the blog a bit. His slow-moving fingers made even a short post entirely too difficult to rush, so he thought he’d just do a small post. A general one- Sherlock hasn’t been working, I’ve taken a few days off too, sorry there’s nothing new to read. Etcetera, etcetera. John glanced at the time on the screen. Nearing the afternoon and Sherlock hadn’t even moved. He closed his eyes and thought of the last time that had happened, after Sherlock was using again. That was not something John wanted to think about. It was almost too much the last time, even for Sherlock. Sherlock barely made it through. John wasn’t sure he could handle it again. He thought Sherlock might die before this stint was done. That thought nearly stopped John’s own heart.

Which is what made him get up to see if Sherlock was awake or not.

Just then there was a knock at the door. A parcel for Sherlock. Only a few actually packages came to 221B, and as some people might know and some might even care, most of them weren’t nice. John was always wary of packages that came to Sherlock Holmes; one occasion in particular gave John the temporary intense fear of baked goodies: Because after you receive and poisoned cookie you will never think of sweets without remembering that one time you nearly died from a batch. Although John should have thought before he ate it, knowing Sherlock’s line of work. Sherlock never did let him live that one down.

But today it was a small envelope that came in the mail, padded and addressed to Sherlock, of course (John never got too much mail unless it was from Mum, and he dreaded her awkward letters asking when he was going to visit next). The return address was from Bart’s. A package from Bart’s? If it was Molly, she could have stopped by. Mike as well.  John held the envelope up to the light for a minute and saw nothing. It was lightweight and seemingly didn’t make any noise. This was neither comforting nor concerning.

John decided this was the perfect opportunity to check on Sherlock. Even if Sherlock was still sleeping John figured at the hour of noon he should be up by now, at least eating something. He knew for a fact Sherlock hadn’t eaten the night before. He strode up the steps again and went straight for Sherlock’s door, knocking lightly.

No answer.

_Oh, hell. Not this again._

John turned the doorknob and opened the door slowly to reveal Sherlock (still in his dressing gown) huddled around himself, back facing John. He didn’t have any cover pulled over him. John tried debating if he was awake or not. He glanced to the dresser to see if the black case was sitting there. It wasn’t, not that that meant anything at all. The air in the room was still but finally John heard Sherlock make a noise, a soft breath. So he was sleeping. John spoke quietly.

“Sh…Sherlock?” No answer the first time, just another breath from Sherlock’s nose and a small movement of the shoulders.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock didn’t move but the deep breaths stopped and John knew then at least one of Sherlock’s eyes was open.

“Mmm.”

“Parcel for you.” He held it out for Sherlock, knowing that from where he was standing in the doorway Sherlock would have to get up to get it. Sherlock didn’t move on the bed, though, only raising his left arm over his shoulder and slightly behind him. John rolled his eyes and stepped forward to place it in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock curled his arm back and slipped a finger to the corner of the envelope, easily opening it. John never could do that; all envelopes addressed to him were a mess when he was through with them. But Sherlock’s fingers moved quickly and gracefully, and soon he was pouring out the content from the envelope, ignoring John towering  over his back to see what it was.

It was a watch, an old fashioned pocket watch. It was gold and etched on the front with a design John couldn’t see. Pretty fancy for Sherlock, to be honest. John tried to see if a note was attached, but Sherlock only had the watch in his hand. He opened it up and John heard the strangest noise.

Sherlock laughed. It was an actual laugh, too. Not the laugh he and John shared when something was genuinely hilarious or downright awkward, but it was a laugh nonetheless. It was Sherlock silently saying whatever this was, this watch, was amusing to him.

Suddenly he stopped and the silence overwhelmed the room. John almost missed the laughter immediately; he had rarely heard it and in the past week it was even more so a less occurrence. Sherlock’s voice cut into his thoughts, raspy from sleep and the words drawn out. “What time is it?”

John looked over at the clock on the bedside table. “12:13.” But Sherlock didn’t set the watch as expected. He only set it on the pillow near his face before speaking again, quietly.

“I’m thinking of going out today.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock’s face was healing, yes, but the burns were definitely still noticeable. The splash of red on Sherlock’s neck and jaw line was a faded pink and the marks around his eye were still raised.

“Yes. It seems nice out today.”

With the window and the blinds closed to Sherlock’s room John had no idea how Sherlock managed that. But he walked over to the window and opened the curtain a little, revealing the bright sun he had already encountered today.

“It’s beautiful out. The fresh air could be good for you. Where are you going to go?”

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. “Not sure.”

“Well, it’s a nice day even for a small walk. I’ll go get the tea started.” John started to leave the room but Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“I was thinking you could join me, John.” It wasn’t a request, per se, and he didn’t talk with the normal tone that told John _you should have known that’s what I meant._ Sherlock hadn’t moved from his original position on the bed but he now spoke with a clear voice. He was fully awake.

John should have realized, and shifted his weight to his good leg. “Yeah, alright. Do you want your tea before?”

“Tea can wait.” Sherlock shifted in the bed but stayed on it, stretching his legs to a straighter position.

“I’ll go…change then.”

Sherlock made a small noise of acknowledgement and John shut the door.

John sat in his chair at 12:27, in his black jacket (he checked outside again, the breeze made it feel much colder even in the sunlight), jumper and shirt, and jeans. He heard Sherlock get out of the shower and move within the bathroom; and by 12:39 Sherlock walked out of his room in his white button-down (with the textured stripes), trousers and blazer. After tucking his shirt in fully he grabbed his coat and scarf, taking the time to wrap the scarf around his neck and actually button his coat up before leaving the flat with John. John figured it was because of the scars; Sherlock’s scarf and coat collar did a fairly well job covering up the burn on his neck. But Sherlock probably also heard the tree branches hit his window from the occasionally gust of wind outside, too.

They started walking in silence. John didn’t want to be the first to break it, because maybe Sherlock was thinking. Or maybe Sherlock was waiting for John? John glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Sherlock staring straight ahead, lips pursed. No, John would wait. Sherlock would speak when he wanted to. When it was necessary. They turned onto Allisop Place, and then to York, when John decided he wanted to know if Sherlock had an actual plan of if they were just winging a walk to nowhere in particular.

“Regent’s Park?” he spoke up over the wind, which was unusually loud in his ear.

Sherlock barely made a reply but it was one nonetheless, and John asked his fourth question of the day. “Any reason in particular?”

Sherlock shrugged lightly. It was a gesture John still wasn’t entirely comfortable with Sherlock making, but it had happened at least ten times in the last week or two, so it was at least a little less noticeable. They walked ahead in silence, the York Bridge seemingly a longer stretch for John than usual.

Not that he minded the quiet. Sherlock and John had been enjoying more quiet as of late since they’re ‘vacation’ started, and for this John was a tiny bit grateful. There was always the indescribable feeling John had in the flat, when Sherlock said something off or anything else. But when that quiet was replaced with the one of Sherlock dozing on the chair or the two of them watching the telly (John watching, really, because Sherlock either yelled or just stared at it), or when the two of them were actually talking about the same thing at the same speed, John felt almost normal. And Sherlock almost seemed normal, too.

So the walk on York Bridge was peaceful enough, Sherlock looking around him and John following only one step behind. Suddenly Sherlock stopped and turned to the edge of the bridge, slightly leaning over and looking down into the water that lead to the lake. John stopped too and leaned next to him, wondering.

“What is it?” Maybe Sherlock had seen something. Maybe this was an actual case Sherlock had opened up, and the thought of that made John’s heart beat fast. But Sherlock only shook his head.

“Nothing, just looking. Come on.” He turned and started walking again, so quickly John had to jog a few steps to catch up.

The inner circle of Regent’s wasn’t quiet, of course. It being a Saturday afternoon, and a beautiful one at that, John was not surprised to see that families and groups of children were scuttling around the circle, going into the park’s and the Zoo’s entrance. Smiling and happy, they all were.

***

Smiling and happy, they all were. And Sherlock Holmes hated them for it. He glared at a small group passing by, a mother and father of two children: boy of 10 and girl of 6. The mother _obviously_ was on a diet, the Father _obviously_ in the middle of an affair (and unknowing that the mother was on a diet), the boy was subpar for intelligence and the girl was frankly too old to be carrying that doll around, she was in school for goodness’ sake.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and looked away from them, attempting to separate his anger from the passerby. They seemed happy, despite their menial problems. And Sherlock couldn’t understand why his internal frustration was rearing to get out. At the same time he understood perfectly.

He noticed John staring at him and looked away, composing the façade he thought he could hold for the day. Another turn back to him and John smiled a small smile. Sherlock posed one in return, very quickly, before stepping ahead of him toward a bench on the outskirts of the cement circle, the one that ran around a small fountain. Sherlock sat on the bench and crossed his right leg over his left in one swift motion, before John even reached where he was. John sat beside him, slightly leaning with his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock watched people as they passed, and unknowingly to him, John watched Sherlock as he did so.

_Early thirties; Lost her job less than an hour ago which won’t help for her husband’s hospital bills-_

_Fourty for sure; Birthday is today and as far as he knows there’s a surprise party but he hates them-_

_Just turned 18; New engagement ring from the (much older) boyfriend but the size and expense of the ring may or may not prove it was for someone else-_

“Shut up.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed at him, he hadn’t said anything. “What?”

It was at this point that Sherlock realized he spoke aloud on accident; he cleared his throat and turned away. “Nevermind.”

John hummed a note and ground his palms into his knees before standing. “Well, come on.” He stretched and waited for Sherlock to move. Which, of course, he didn’t.

“Come on?” Sherlock looked up (well, not “up”, per se, as the length of Sherlock’s torso nearly made his height almost eye-level with John’s standing height). “Why are you standing?”

John rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s a nice day, you can figure people out later. Let’s do something, yeah?”

“I don’t want to do anything.” But Sherlock was already standing, despite what he said and what he thought he wanted or didn’t want to do. John grinned.

“You wouldn’t have asked me to come along if you didn’t have a specific plan in mind.”

“I don’t have a…a specific plan.” Sherlock spoke defiantly but confused as well, and the mixture of tones made John raise his eyebrow.

“Well, we’ll plan something then. Your brain might be working faster than you can grasp it today. Maybe spring fever?” And with that Army Doctor John Watson strode away from Sherlock and in the direction of the bridge that they came; and suddenly Sherlock found himself following John instead of the opposite.

Odd enough to say Sherlock was alright with that.

But just today. Today was….well, today was today and that’s all there was to it, wasn’t there? Sherlock didn’t dwell, he never did, and he wasn’t about to start now.

The crossed the bridge and ended up at the Criterion. Sherlock hadn’t been in the mood for coffee but John was paying and if there was any day to _let_ John pay for something rather than force it upon him by _conveniently_ leaving his wallet at home, he supposed today was it.

It shouldn’t taste any different because John bought it, or because John ordered it the way he liked it. But there was something Sherlock didn’t have before.

Another walk and another park, this one smaller than Regent’s (obviously, you git, of course it’s smaller than Regent’s). They walked quietly, although every once in a while John made a comment about the sun (to which Sherlock hummed a note of acknowledgement) or asked what Sherlock was thinking (to which Sherlock ignored because he refused to lie to John.)

Sherlock pulled out the pocket watch from the package he received earlier, nestled into his pocket, and opened it quickly. It felt natural in his nimble fingers. It was heavy and felt like it was worth more than the chain it hung on, but Sherlock held it was ease. It was as if it belonged to him, somehow. And he hated that, the fact that he liked it and the fact that he wanted it.

He compared the time on his wristwatch to the pocket one. Five hour’s difference.

How do you prepare for-

“Why didn’t you set it?” John’s voice cut through Sherlock’s thoughts as it always did, a welcome knife into the meat and potatoes of brainwork Sherlock’s mind provided for him, and he was caught so unaware that he answered immediately. Despite his not wanting to.

“It’s suppose to remind me of something.”

“Remind you of what?” John gave him the look, the one that said _what in hell are you going on about?_ But Sherlock didn’t respond, only pretended to ignore the question as he closed the watch and slipped it into pocket with a silent thump to the fabric.

Meat and potatoes of brainwork, really. What kind of analogy was that?

It made sense, though. Sherlock’s mind was usually a fast one, light as air, working through words and sentences, articles and paragraphs quicker than anyone else. And he was still moving at the same speed but his mind felt…heavy.

Heavy heart, heavy mind, he supposed.

But again, dwelling doesn’t do the mind well anyway.

John walked a bit ahead of him to the small pond this park had, where a few ducks were swimming peacefully in the water. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John walked to the water’s edge and slipped his loafers off, then his socks.

He wasn’t really going to go in there.

But John was rolling the bottom of his jeans up to just past his calves and wading into the water slowly. Sherlock sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes; what a _waste_ of time! It’s not as if he had all day. But John stood there, wiggling his toes. Despite the few people around that were obviously staring at him, gossiping women discussing first the absurd reasons he’d want to wade in the water when it probably wasn’t even allowed, and then moving on to the subjects of his nice physique and homely face. And when John turned his head back to smile at Sherlock, Sherlock stopped wondering why he was with this crazy doctor at the park and he only stared back.

After a few moments of silence John finally asked him. “Well, aren’t you coming?”

Sherlock couldn’t believe John was asking. “No.”

“Why not? Water’s cool, come on. Just for a minute.” John’s smile shone brighter than the sun on the water, and while we are allowing a brief romantic description let’s discuss it from his point of view, too.

***

John could let the watch thing go, for now. Because obviously Sherlock was keeping something _else_ from him and he wasn’t going to explain.

So when John looked at Sherlock while he drank the first few sips of his coffee, he thought maybe in that big old brain Sherlock had, in the one that kept Sherlock locked in his room for hours, gave him migraines, made him want things he didn’t, maybe John could help.

What a stupid idea it was, but he had it anyway. Might as well run with it.

He could feel Sherlock’s presence behind him all the way to the park, and John never once looked back to see his reaction to what he was about to do. Not until he did it, anyway- when his shoes and socks sat in the muddy bank and his feet were cool and wet, dirty water swirling around his ankles. He looked back and saw Sherlock, really saw him again.

John wasn’t sure but he thought Sherlock wasn’t aware that he was displaying himself so readily. Sherlock usually kept a façade when he was swarmed with thoughts, or when he knew something was coming. But when John looked back he saw the jade green eyes like they had lost some color; and Sherlock’s confused expression proved that his mind really wasn’t in its right state today.

“Why not? Water’s cool, come on. Just for a minute.” John waited for the shake of Sherlock’s head, and he started back toward him.

In three seconds he had Sherlock’s hand in his, and grass on the bottom of his feet (and a pebble between his toes, he was fairly sure) and he was pulling Sherlock toward the water. Sherlock obviously still didn’t understand. John really expected him to join in? To take his nice shoes off, his socks and roll up his very expensive trousers and just stand in the water, for no good reason?

“Yes,” John answered to Sherlock’s filled silence. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John interrupted before he even began. “Shoes first, come on, then.”

Sherlock toed his shoes off slowly and John went back to the water, relieved to feel the grass get washed away and the pebble to be removed from the indent of his pinky and fourth toe. Sherlock slipped his socks next, and rolled them together before putting them in one shoe. He was obviously trying to be slow. He went to work on the cuffs of his trousers.

“Come on, Sherlock, we don’t have all day.”

The look Sherlock gave him was indescribable.

Soon Sherlock was standing right behind John.

“John, really-“

“Shut up, Sherlock, just humor me. Put your feet in the damned water.”

And that was all it took. The soft splash of the water and a sharp inhale as Sherlock realized the coldness of it, and the sight would have been one to see. An ex-army doctor, jeans rolled up unevenly and bare feet in a pond; and the world’s only Consulting Detective with his longer-than-normal pale feet beside them. They both still had their coats, and Sherlock his scarf. But there they stood, at the edge of a pond that was moving with the breeze and glowing under the sun. Neither of them said anything for a little while. Sherlock looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes, and John watched them stir up more dirt than before, grinning.

“Feels good, yeah?”

“Mmm.” The tone wasn’t agreeable but it wasn’t dismissive either. John took that as a good sign. Sherlock pocketed his hands and looked out at the water, where one solitary duck was bobbing along. John looked too.

After a while Sherlock’s voice interrupted the serene atmosphere, if only for a second. “Angelo’s?”

John looked at his watch. “If you want. Early dinner.”

Sherlock nodded in response but they stayed that way, for ten more minutes. John rocking from the balls of his feet to the heels, Sherlock wriggling his toes and every once in a while flicking the top of his foot to cause a small dirt-water-storm under the surface.

 _He’s like a kid,_ John thought. Sherlock flicked his foot again and watched the water move, and John could only watch his face. His eyes, mostly. Sherlock’s eyes, always green with sparkle or green with shine, excitedness even when he was bored, but today they were quiet. They told John nothing.

Sometimes his eyes told John what he needed to hear but Sherlock couldn’t say.

 _A nightmare, John, but I can’t remember it._ He stood in the bedroom doorway that night, eyes wide-and John slowly rose out of bed to make tea. Eventually Sherlock fell asleep on the floor and John in his chair, an arm draped over his own leg to pin Sherlock’s wrist to it.

 _They won’t go away, John, I can’t stop them._ He was shaking that night, seven patches on one arm and three on the other; and as John peeled them away Sherlock’s eyes and shallow breathing told him something he already knew but never realized. Sherlock hated the cravings. He was scared of them.

And the night Sherlock collapsed in the kitchen, as a result of six days with no food and barely any water- no sleep and no rest whatsoever. John woke him up with cold water and propped Sherlock up against the fridge to bring him a few biscuits and the instant tea he hated but was more convenient for John right now. And when John had the breath to almost yell at Sherlock, “Why didn’t you eat something? Or get some sleep?” Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes looked up in his direction and told him the reason. _Because no one told me to._

He really was like a kid.

But today there was no expression in his eyes. Except maybe a bit of sadness. No, sadness wasn’t right. And even if it were, John would have no violin chords to tell him if he were right. But as Sherlock bent to roll his socks on and then his trouser cuffs down, John couldn’t help but to think Sherlock was avoiding his eyes.

Whatever it was, it was even louder out here at the park than it was in the confined flat. Maybe it was worse, John though. Maybe it wasn’t. But it felt…bigger. It felt like Sherlock and John were being consumed with it, this presence that Sherlock hadn’t let on about but John knew was there. And just when John opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock spoke first.

***

“I’d like to go to Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock could almost hear John’s brain working through thing, and he was having none of that. He couldn’t see but he was 98% positive John was about to speak, about to bring up something Sherlock really didn’t want to discuss, really _couldn’t,_ and so Sherlock said the first thing that came into his mind.

John shut his mouth and opened it again, obviously irritated at the interruption. Good.

“Scotland Yard? That’s…that’s good. Yeah, fine.” Sherlock knew John was probably relieved at the statement. Maybe it meant more for him. It was the normal thing for them to do at this time of day, get a cab to the Yard and work on a case. Or rather, Sherlock worked on it and John drank coffee in Lestrade’s office, or had a chat.

The cab ride was a short one, and silent. Sherlock walked ahead of John and through the doors. Lestrade was surprised to see the two of them.

***

Hell, John was surprised they were even there.

“Greg, how’s things?”

Lestrade watches Sherlock with his eyes as he answers. “Good, yeah. Been…hectic, no thanks to you.” He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock, who of course isn’t noticing but knows it.

“Files?” is all he says, and Lestrade points to the office.

“You know where they are.”

Sherlock heads in and John follows, sitting in the chair as Lestrade takes one of the chairs opposite the desk. Sherlock, of course, sits where Lestrade should be. He cycles through the files twice.

“Sandergon murder, there was a burglary. Random. You should have noticed.” He speaks quickly. “They took the jewelry from the dresser.”

“How did you even notice _that_?”

But Sherlock only moves on to the next file and Lestrade searches for his small notebook in his blazer

. “Lestrade!” Sherlock almost sounds offended now. “How can you not realize-“

John interrupts. “Just _tell_ him, Sherlock, it’d go by much faster.”

Sherlock glances upwards for a second and then back to the file. “Fine, Lee case, it was his brother, the tall one. Blood patterns can only go so high if you’re wielding an-“

John rolls his eyes. “ _Sherlock._ “

Sherlock huffs and moves on. “Don’t know about the double killing, I’d need to look into the streets where they found the gun-“

“I can take you there tonight, if you want-“Lestrade tries, and Sherlock’s point-blank response almost has a sense of anger laced around the edges.

“Don’t have the time.” He sets that sheet on the desk to his right, and looks at the next one. John clears his throat.

“Sherlock, we can go for a minute, that’s all you really need, right?”

Sherlock looks at him and speaks harshly. “I _said_ I don’t have the time.”

Lestrade tries again, and it’s a grave mistake. “Sherlock-“

“No!” Sherlock stands and slams the pile of papers down and John leans forward with his head down. As if that should avoid the blow. Sherlock speaks quickly and angrily, as Lestrade looks dumbfounded. “I said I haven’t got the time, Lestrade, and the fact that John and you have now tried to argue with me means I’ve got even _less_ to work with, so do please shut the hell up.”

John looked up quickly at Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock at Lestrade’s. Sherlock’s cheeks were tinged pink and Lestrade’s too, but for entirely different reasons.

“Otherwise I can leave now and you’ll never figure out how Mr. Roche was able to kill three men with 2 bullets.”

Lestrade cleared his throat and sat forward, and Sherlock sat back down. “Right. Roche, how…”

An hour later they were getting into a cab and John shut the door behind him.

“You didn’t have to yell at him, Sherlock. I mean, Jesus.”

“He was wasting my time, why not? If I didn’t yell he would have kept talking. Simple resolve.”

“Lunch couldn’t wait an extra twenty minutes? Ten, even?”

“No, I said I didn’t have the time today. Or any day, for that matter.”

John gave him a look. “And why is that?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but pulled out his phone to look at the time. John looked at his watch; 2:40. When he glanced back at Sherlock was peeking into his pocket. He sat back up and sighed, then spoke.

“He could easily solve it himself; it’ll just take him a few days. The Roche case he’d never get and he’d arrest some poor sod for a random burglary. At least I could prevent that before it was too la-“He paused and turned to look out the window. “Too late.”

John mirrored the action.

***

Sherlock Holmes never ordered a plate of his own at Angelo’s. On the rare occasions that he did eat there, it was two or three forkfuls of John’s fettuccine alfredo _or_ occasional garlic breadstick. But never _and;_ It was one or the other.

Sherlock Holmes ever ordered wine at Angelo’s either-or anywhere else, for that matter. He had a splash of whiskey on Christmas Eve once, per John’s request, but it was a long argument encouraging it. When John asked Sherlock why he didn’t drink he immediately regretted it. Not because of the look Sherlock gave him, but because the obvious answer (although those two things belong hand-in hand):“Alcohol has led me to better and more dangerous things. I try to keep away from it.” John felt like an idiot after that, and started drinking even less. Not that he drank a lot to begin with (because with Harry Watson as an example, John was insistent on keeping drunken nights at bay).

And Sherlock Holmes certainly never order a _bottle_ of wine _with_ a plate of dinner for himself at Angelo’s; so when the words came from his mouth Angelo’s eyebrows inched toward his hairline, and John’s disappeared under his hair entirely.

“What,” was the only word John could say as Angelo walked away, “What?”

“What?” Sherlock’s reply seemed exactly the same but it was spoken the way a child would say in response to their mother shouting their name in anger. “I just ordered-“

“Those three words alone scare me, Sherlock. You’re hungry?”

“And thirsty, yes. Well, not thirsty. But I could use a glass of wine.”

“Or a bottle, apparently.” John sighed. “We skipped a crime scene so you could get drunk?”

Just then Angelo brings said bottle and two glasses before leaving again. Sherlock popped the cork. “I never said that. Although that may be a welcome result.” He poured half a glass for himself, and then one for John.

“All of a sudden, you want to get drunk.” John still didn’t understand.

“No, I said I could use a glass of wine.” Sherlock takes a large swig of the wine and swishes it in his mouth before swallowing. “Tipsy sounds a better state anyway, I can still think half-clearly.”

John blinked and took a small sip of his wine. It was good, he gave it that. Not that he needed to give the wine anything. But Sherlock wanted it, and that was weird enough.

“I’m just confused, is all. Why now?”

Sherlock looks into his glass of wine after taking another sip. After a long pause he just gives a small shrug. “Tonight’s no different from any other night, I suppose.”

“That’s a lie and you know it!” John snaps, and Sherlock hiccups on his third sip, looking surprised.

“What does that mean?” He sets the glass down with a clink and John looks into his dulled eyes.

“Well, first that-whatever that is-“John reaches into Sherlock’s coats pocket to produce the pocket watch, setting it on the table. “And wanting to leave the flat for no reason at all other than to sit on a bench-“

“You wanted to wade in the bloody pond!” Sherlock argued, grabbing the watch back.

“Yes, because the look on your face was fucking _tragic,_ Sherlock.” John’s nostrils flare and he glares at Sherlock. “All day I’ve been wondering what the hell is going on. Hell, all week! And then you want to go to the Yard to solve crimes when for the past two weeks you refused to acknowledge the real work outside of our flat?”

Sherlock huffs. “I was simply waiting for my burns to heal-”

John stops him short again. “They’re still not healed now, I can see them.” Sherlock sinks a little lower into the booth out of…embarrassment? John shook his head. “Now you want to go out to dinner and actually eat something and drink…” His voice trails off.

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing,” Sherlock mumbles as he pulls his coat collar upwards.

John swallows before he speaks, and the words make Sherlock stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking for a few seconds. “It could be.”

Sherlock finally sits up and takes another drink. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Is it ridiculous, Sherlock?” John looks at him. “Tell me it’s ridiculous, and I won’t say another word. Is it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock draws out the word and sets the glass down, looking into John’s eyes.

John felt wrong inside.

Angelo brings their two plates, and Sherlock and John are still looking at each other.  Sherlock looks away first. The complete opposite action of the past two weeks.*

Sherlock finishes the last drop of wine in his glass and pours a second one, then starts eating. He looks down at the plate as he does, pushing his fork into his chicken slowly.

John took a small sip of his wine and watched him, wondering why he hurt so much. Why something inside of him, that he couldn’t locate with words but could physically feel, hurt so much he wanted to throw up.

***

Let it be known that this much is true:

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson never watched the telly together.

John watched the telly more often than Sherlock did, and with more enjoyment too. Sherlock watched the news when he cared too, though he preferred to read it, and occasionally watched the daytime or weekend dramas (that more likely than not proved to be comedies for him). He occasionally watched Doctor Who on Saturday nights when John did, but he worked on the laptop to keep himself from yelling out the things that were so _obviously_ wrong with the plot and technicalities of it. John watched intently and Sherlock glanced upwards every forty-five seconds. But they never really watched the telly _together._ At the same time, sitting beside each other.

Another fact:

They never cuddled, either. This statement has no exceptions. Sherlock and John barely touch each other; only when Sherlock was hurt (only one time John was hurt and Sherlock cared for him, but the opposite was a much more frequent occurrence), or when Sherlock was sick (again, a _much_ more frequent occurrence). There was a brush of the hand, an accidental bump of the hips or backs. Such was expected when you worked cases together, crawling into tight spaces or hiding out in alleys. But other than that Sherlock and John didn’t touch. More than they needed to. And it was never an issue. Even when it was an issue for Sherlock to be in physical contact with anyone, touching John was never an issue.

All of this is exactly why the setting of John Watson sitting on the sofa, right arm resting of the arm of the it and left arm draped over the back of it, and Sherlock Holmes sitting with his arms around his knees and his entire right side pressing into John’s left, might be a little surprising. Very surprising, in fact.

John did _not_ have his arm over Sherlock’s shoulder, though. Or a finger pulling at one of Sherlock’s curls. And he was paying attention to Doctor Who. Even if it was a repeat.

And Sherlock most definitely _didn’t_ have a raised pulse, shallowed breathing or the overall bodily sense that this was making him nervous. He was warm because his coat was still on, and his scarf. His stomach was flipping because he ate, and he drank, all in one sitting.

This all, was perfectly untrue, but you can keep your theories to yourself.

John refused to think about it anymore. The more he focused on the bad feeling he had the worse he felt. And the moment he thought of bringing it up again Sherlock always mumbled something about the show and he was distracted for two seconds. Two seconds too long and then John forgot the feeling until he was reminded of it. Like clockwork.

And he couldn’t even think of how he got here. He sat down to watch the telly as Sherlock looked around the flat for a while, hands flexing repeatedly in a sort of pattern he never understood but saw often. When it seemed like Sherlock was going to make way into his room John opened his mouth.

“We could just…watch telly or something?”

***

Sherlock let the pattern ( _right thumb touching right index finger, left thumb to left pinky, right middle, left ring, right pinky, left index right ring and left second-then backwards to the beginning; repeat_ ) calm him as he looked around the room. He was just going to grab something. And then work up the courage to ask John if he could watch the telly with him.

It was a sad excuse, but Sherlock needed the brief moment away from John to clear his senses. Wine or not, John was disorienting. The whole bloody day was disorienting.

But John had said it first, and it was another thing to add to the list of reasons Sherlock was grateful for him.

***

So here they were. And while John tried not to think about it, it was the only thing occupying Sherlock’s mind. He peeked into his pocket once, then to the clock on the wall; 5:43. John’s voice broke into a commercial for dish-cleaner fluid.

“Late for something?” He kept looking at the television.

Sherlock shook his head and pocketed the watch again, looking to the screen as well. “Meeting someone soon.”

“Who? That’s what all this…What time?”

“I already said, John. Soon.” Sherlock grabbed the remote from his lap and turned the volume up a few digits, ending the conversation.

John sighed and turned half of his attention back to the commercials, and kept the other half focused on who the hell Sherlock could be meeting. If it was a client Sherlock usually specified that. If it was Mycroft, he scoffed and made a sarcastic comment about it. He’s only visited his Mother once since they moved to 221b, for three weeks. John stepped into the flat to see Sherlock throwing various things from every room into a suitcase, checking his phone every six seconds and letting out an frustrated sigh every three.

“New case?” John asked, amused. He threw his coat over his chair.

Sherlock’s voice was emotionless, but rushed. “Mother’s had a stroke. Only minor. Mycroft’s picking me up in twenty minutes.”

“Jesus.” John held his breath and watched him. “Do you need-“

“No.”

“I could-“

“No.”

That was all he said to John, before leaving. And John didn’t hear from him at all the entire time he was gone, save for one text that said he was returning to the flat on the day he sent it. Only an hour before he walked into the door. He never did tell John how the visit went, or how his Mother was. The only reason John knew she was alive was because he texted Mycroft.

So all in all, Sherlock only left the house for cases, cases, cases…and the occasionally family trip. And he _never_ went on dates. The one time he faked interest in a woman she was a serial killer, and John was forced to watch him give fake suggestive smiles and _wink_ , of all things.

And then there was Irene Adler. But that’s a story for another time.

Back to current situations, then.

Sherlock’s pulse never did slow down, despite how much he wanted to. The longer he and John sat on the sofa, the worse he felt. And the better he felt, too. He felt good and _terrible_ at the same time. His heartbeat was racing, his cheeks felt like they were burning. He couldn’t take deep breaths; they hurt his chest too much. And every time John moved, Sherlock moved with him naturally, as if the two of them belonged to their own gravitation pull.

A new episode started, and Sherlock knew what that meant. His stomach churned and he pulled his knees closer to himself. John glanced over with his eyes once but didn’t ask.

Sherlock’s stomach made another movement, akin to a flip, and then it ached. He swallowed and tried to steady his breaths, tried to calm down. Or at least settle his stomach. A look at the clock on the wall; 6:04. He leaned back into the couch and John’s arm; 6:05. He leaned forward and clutched his stomach. 6:07.

At Sherlock leaning forward John turned a bit and leaned forward to see him better. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a small groan, mentally informing his stomach that now _really_ isn’t the best time. It only responded with another churn, and the sudden warning that Sherlock should move.

And move he did. John’s left side felt a cool rush of air as Sherlock quickly propelled himself from the sofa and into the bathroom, shutting the door. John didn’t hear the click of the lock, but he waited. There were no sounds, and he waited some more.

Suddenly the sound of Sherlock violently getting sick in the bathroom echoed into the living room, making John cringe. A second time, and a third, Sherlock prayed to the porcelain God and silence fell again. John slowly stood and muted the television before slowly going over to the door and knocking lightly. “Sherlock?”

Silence still. John waited for any sound at all, Sherlock grumbling or mumbling or humming a note or even telling John to go away. But there wasn’t anything from the other side of the door, so John turned the doorknob and opened it slowly.

Sherlock’s frame was hunched over the toilet slightly, his right hand gripping the edge of the bathtub and his left palm resting on his thigh. He was sitting on his knees, his coat and scarf still on. The bottom of his coat pooled around him on the tile. Sherlock made no acknowledgement that John was even there. His cheeks were pink and he was shaking slightly, the usual mixed feeling of relief and sickness that consumed you after you threw up.

“Nerves,” Sherlock eventually said, as if John had asked for an explanation. John took a deep breath and flushed the toilet, leaning over.

“You okay?” John lightly pulled at Sherlock’s coat collar. “Come on; let’s get this off you, yeah?” He slid the coat from Sherlock’s shoulders, “Too warm,” and even though Sherlock kept mentally telling him that he needed the coat on, he didn’t say anything right away-only cleared his throat and tried to forget the burning there, and the taste.

But when John tugged at Sherlock’s scarf Sherlock glanced up at the bathroom clock. 6:09. Had it really only been two minutes? But still-

“I have to go-“ Sherlock weakly took the scarf back from John’s hands, but John quickly retrieved it and tossed it onto the tile.

“Sherlock, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

6:10. Sherlock knew he could easily get there in five minutes, but he had wanted to walk slowly. No sense in walking quickly to a permanent destination. Ten more minutes, he thought.

“I have to go, John.”

“Sherlock, really, they will understand if you can’t make it.” John had assumed by this point that it was a client he was meeting, because he never went on dates and he wouldn’t willingly visit his family without brooding about it.

But then he remembered the lawyer. What was her name? Angela?

Sherlock said it was his nerves that made him sick. He’s never nervous with a case. People get nervous for dates. Normal people do. But Sherlock didn’t date and he was never nervous.

“”S probably the wine. And the food. Too much at once, I think.” John dampened a washrag from the counter and crouched next to Sherlock, lightly setting it onto the back of his neck. Sherlock exhaled in relief, it did feel nice. John switched sides of the rag and moved it to Sherlock’s forehead. “That better?”

Sherlock nodded and glances up again. 6:14.

No, best to do it now. If he doesn’t leave now he never will, not with a cool rag on his face and John being this nice. Sherlock suddenly stands, ignoring the small wave of nausea, and leans over to pick up his scarf and coat.

John drops the rag out of surprise and stands too “Sherlock, you’re staying here.”

“I have to go.”

“Sherlock!”

“I have to go!” Sherlock pushes past him and into his bedroom for a second, and John groans out of frustration and heads into the living room. After sitting in his chair, the horrible feeling came back. The indescribable one, the unmentionable one.

The foreboding one.

That’s what it was, foreboding.

 He took a deep breath and told it to pass. It only seemed to get worse. Suddenly Sherlock was back into the living room, hurriedly putting his scarf on. John watched him move but he knew Sherlock was, once again, avoiding his eyes.

John continued to will him to look, though. And as Sherlock slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat, he heard the beginnings of rain tap against the window lightly. Sherlock paused and looked up, grimacing.

That was enough to set the tone right there. 6:16.

He buttoned his coat and pulled the collar up, reaching into his pocket. The pocket watch was still there, nestled in the corner and sitting square over his torso. He rubbed his thumb over it slightly before moving towards the stairs to the front door.

John’s eyes darted from the window to him at the movement, and he tensed. Sherlock was leaving. Why was Sherlock leaving? Couldn’t he just-

“What’s happening?” He speaks loudly and Sherlock stops abruptly in the doorway. He doesn’t turn back but he picks his head up.

“What do you mean, what’s happening?”

“I mean just that. What’s going on?”

Sherlock sighs. “Nothing’s going on, John.”

“Nothing’s happening to you?”

“Nothing’s happening to me, John.” Sherlock takes a step out of the room but John stands quickly, breaking the uncomfortable two seconds of silence.

 “What do you owe me, then, if something does happen to you?” He speaks harshly and Sherlock stops. He turns to look at John, face of stone. They stay like that, fields of green meeting skies of blue.

Forty-nine seconds later Sherlock swallows and speaks quietly. “I’d owe you my life, John.”

**Admission: n. acknowledgment that a fact or statement is true.**

John stopped breathing, and Sherlock spoke again after inhaling.

“But I suppose I already owe you that much. So I’m not sure of how much worth it would be to you either way.”

John swallowed and hitched a breath, eyes locked onto Sherlock’s.

Sherlock broke the gaze first, glancing at the clock. 6:18. What perfect timing. It actually worked, the second to last piece. Nevermind that John wouldn’t hear the last one. That was for Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.

 He exhaled one laugh, and took a deep breath before meeting John’s eyes one last time.

“Good-bye, John.”

He turned on his heel and rushed down the stairs. John made a move to follow him but before he could reach the hall Sherlock’s quick taps on the stairs disappeared.

The only sound that filled the flat next was that of Sherlock opening the front door of 221B for the last time, the light rain hitting the stoop and a hard slam of the door.

***

Sherlock turned to face the door of the flat after he shut it, bunching up his coat sleeve and wiping the gold 221B clean.

Oddly enough, he felt fine now.

***

John inhaled sharply as the door shut, and he blinked three times before shaking his head and rushing down the stairs. His limp was suddenly there, making the walk down the stairs slow. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, looking around.

But Sherlock was already gone. No one was one the street, actually. The rain was coming down harder now, and John called Sherlock’s name out once loudly into the neighborhood. But no one answered him.

***

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock smiled. Nothing felt better than knowing that’d be the last thing he’d hear John say.


	11. Label, 2:05 am

**Label: marker, description; brand**

**_The fifteenth of April, 2:05 am_ **

It was a beautiful day.

If Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about it- in depth, too, really thought about it- He’d still tell you at the end of the night it had been a beautiful day. Rain washed over the roof of the building, he could hear it through three floors.

But it was still beautiful, really. And he never thought too much of the word.

A voice (unwelcomed, but warrented) interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts and sang a song of death.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock picked his head up and tilted it to the side, the corners of his lips curling. Not necessarily with triumph, but maybe not defeat, either.

“Jim Moriarty.”

***

It was sad enough to know that John didn’t think of calling Mycroft earlier, but it was even sadder to know he wasn’t sure if it would make any damned difference.

He called a cab and told the driver to drive, just drive, and even with rain falling into the car and over John (who didn’t even bother to grab his jacket), all John could think about was where Sherlock could be.

It was pathetic, looking this way. John knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere.

So one phone call to Mycroft and 6 texts to Lestrade later, John had the address of a small warehouse. Abandoned, half-crumbling, and when the cabbie stopped the car in front of it John wondered if he should have brought his gun. Two seconds after that John realized he actually did grab his gun. Funnily enough he doesn’t remember that part.

In fact, there’s not much he does remember about that night. Just a few, little details.

***

The sound of a gunshot is something you will never, ever forget.

Neither will you mistake it for something else.

Sure, on a good day you might be able to tell yourself it’s a bit of firecrackers going off, yeah? Festivities in the park, a couple faint pops that seem right outside your window but at the same time as far away as the hills.

And maybe, on a _really_ good day, you won’t even notice one. And you won’t realize what that small sound was until the news comes on: that woman you saw at Tesco three days ago is dead. She’s dead because some sod pulled a trigger.

Or your comrade from war, the guy who got you an extra cigarette when you were really pining for one (and it didn’t matter if you smoked or not, because in the middle of a war everyone smokes) and he didn’t mind lending you a lighter, either.

It took six bullets to kill him, John sometimes thinks with a pang in his shoulder. Six bullets to kill the first man you saw die on the field- and the sound is always recognizable after that.

The sound of the gunshot was the first detail, and John’s heart, quite literally, stopped for a second after. His whole body stopped, eyes fixed on the only one in the world. Consulting Detective, that is.

Just a few, little details.

***

The smell of Sherlock’s blood, that’s something he’ll never want to have back.

It still invades his nostrils, even now. John sometimes wonders what that means- maybe Sherlock’s left some in the flat for him, for a bit of a joke. But Sherlock was never really good at jokes. And it really isn’t funny anymore.

Somehow Sherlock’s blood smells different from any other John’s taken in; there’s the faint copper smell you always get, the rust you can’t push away. But there was something else too; he couldn’t place it at the time.

The next day he realized what it was: chemicals. Some sort of sour-smelling chemical was in Sherlock’s blood. John never inhaled, John never consumed- never _felt_ that kind of scent before. Maybe it was the drugs? Or maybe Sherlock’s heart pumped out some sort of inhuman elixir that would leave particles in John’s nose, reminding him of sulfur, or phosphate, or…well. He was never good with chemistry anyway.

But that never mattered, because Sherlock was wonderful at chemistry. It was his best subject.

Sherlock’s blood was red, dark, and sticky. But John couldn’t bring himself to wash up the first night.

Just a few, little details.

***

The taste of tea- Sherlock never actually went out to buy any like he said he would, and so John was stuck with Sleepytime. He occasionally used it in disastrous need of Sherlock to calm down and get to bed, because his brain wouldn’t shut up. He’d shake and toss and turn in his bed, mumbling random nothings and everythings- things John couldn’t understand.

John couldn’t see himself sleeping anywhere in the foreseeable future, but it was tea all the same. Chamomile and honey, the ingredients of relaxation themselves- but John’s hand won’t stop with the tremors. This used to be a good thing. For some reason, he accidentally put sugar in it. Only Sherlock took it that way. John didn’t care.

If Sherlock were there, maybe he would have drunk it.

Just a few, little details.

***

Seeing the look on Sherlock’s face, just before the shot was fired.

And right after...

He reminded John of a child, really. His eyebrows rose surprisingly and he seemed to take a short breath in, standing just a bit straighter than before, fists unclenched.

Sherlock never really smiled- he mostly smirked, or grinned in a way that told you you were missing something. But John could swear, on anyone’s life, on Sherlock’s, even? That he was smiling. Like a child.

He might have said John’s name, but John didn’t hear that. He only heard the bullet.

And then there was the look after. When Sherlock’s whole body jolted into stiffness, red seeping through the white, oh God-

Sherlock’s eyes moved to see John again, eyelids blinking slowly. His hand weakly rose to his chest as an instinct, one finger trailing over the bullet hole. John rushed in as Sherlock looked down at the blood. He started to fall, but John couldn’t catch him- So Sherlock slid downwards against the wall until he was almost lying down, and John appeared over him.

And he looked a child then, too. Shocked, maybe- Eyes wide and mouth formed into an “Oh.” John couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear, couldn’t smell, couldn’t taste, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel-

Just a few, little details.

***

The feel of Sherlock’s heart, slowing down beneath John’s hand.

He did have one, you know. A heart.

Never burned, like his hands or his neck, never singed. Hardened, maybe. But it was there.

The bullet was small, which was in good favor. John tried to look, tried to see which side- and he exhaled in relief when he was sure the right side of Sherlock’s heart had been hit. That’s maybe an extra thirty seconds, and for Christ’s sake, he was taking it.

He opened Sherlock’s shirt quickly and looked for red on his chest. Blood, it was red, yes, but John specifically needed a carotid tamponade. Needed the red flush over Sherlock’s skin. And he needed it desperately. It could save Sherlock: hold him over until the ambulance came, could even save John too- but even as John heard the faint wails of an ambulance’s sirens (he will never doubt Mycroft’s government again), he cursed under his breath because Sherlock’s chest was still pale. Deathly pale, as the rest of him was. And getting paler by the second.

He held Sherlock’s head up a bit through the talking, watching his heart.

John knew it was trying, it was working, damn it, why his _heart-_

Sherlock coughed and a few drops of his blood reached John’s lips, but John couldn’t taste that.

Then Sherlock gasped, a gurgling from his throat surrounding the room. But John never heard that.

He only heard the bullet.

Sherlock wrote John a letter in his mind, dotted i’s and crossed t’s, but John couldn’t see it.

He only saw the look on his face.

And Sherlock’s hand squeezed John’s wrist, as if he was checking to make sure he was really there.

But John didn’t feel that.

He only felt his heart.

Just a few, little details.

***

“Sherlock-“

_“Al…always good to see you, John.”_

“Don’t, don’t _say_ anything,you’ll be alright.”

_“’Course I will, I’m fine. All fine. What time is it?”_

“Shut up, Sherlock, stop _moving-_ Why didn’t you let me come?”

_“Very…Very sincerely **yours** , John.”_

**Label: marker, description, brand;** **characterization, classification,**

**Identification.**

 “Sherlock. Please, Sherlock, open your eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, very much for reading this fic. I know you're probably getting angry as you read this, because to answer the simple question: Yes, this fic is done. Complete. But not the series. This will be the first part of a small series that I have already started continuing. I hope to get a major amount of work down before posting, as to be a bit ahead.
> 
> The next part of the series will be the aftermath- Mostly just John getting on after Sherlock's death, and a surprising visit from the Consulting Detective himself. There will be Sherlock POV chapters as well. I hope you'll stick with me through all of this, the way you have through A Study- and while you wait please subscribe! Read and review any of my other fics- I have a few other WIPS I hope to be wrapping up in addition to some one-shots that are great for Johnlock. 
> 
> I thank you so much for supporting me through this fic. I promise everything will be explained in due time! Love, Courtney


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